J-NRLF 


A 


MARYJAMESON 
JUDAH 


-r 


/<r? 


DOWN  OUR  WAY 


DOWN    OUR 
WAY 

Stories  of  South 
ern  and  Western 
character 

by 

Mary  Jameson 
Judah 


CHICAGO 

WAY  0  WILLIAMS 


COPYRIGHT 

BY   WAY   A  WILLIAMS 

MDCCCXCVII 


Two  of  these  stories  have  been  published  before: 
"A  Gentlewoman"  under  another  title  in  the  Arena, 
1893,  and  "An  Adventure  of  a  Lady  of  Quality"  in 
Harper's  Magazine  for  January,  1895 — more  than  a 
year  before  the  announcement  of  a  book  with  a  similar 
title. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
A  VISIBLE  SIGN.  .  ....  9 

THE   END   OF  SOCIETY.  .  .  .  .21 

AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY  OF  QUALITY.          .  .  39 

A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH.  .  .  •  5* 

A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS.  .  .  .  -77 

THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT.          .  .  .         159 

THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER.  .  .  .         193 

A  GENTLEWOMAN.       .  .  .  .  .215 

THE  BLUE  BLAZERS.       .....        247 


A  VISIBLE  SIGN 


A  VISIBLE   SIGN 

IT  was  at  first  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
Captain  Lee  that  in  the  dismemberment 
of  the  Confederacy  the  records  of  his  regi 
ment  had  been  destroyed.  The  memories 
so  overwhelmingly  present  with  him  must, 
he  thought,  be  part  of  the  universal  knowl 
edge,  not  to  be  lost.  Later  it  seemed  to 
him  that  all  the  world  but  himself  had  for 
gotten.  He  tried  to  find  his  old  commander, 
to  get  some  accredited  statement  of  his 
services;  but  the  Colonel  was  dead,  and  the 
other  officers  were  scattered  beyond  finding. 
The  letters  that  the  Captain  had  written 
to  his  wife  had  been  lost  in  moving  to  town 
from  the  plantation,  and  his  body  servant 
who  went  up  to  Richmond  with  him  when 
he  enlisted  had  died  in  the  first  yellow  fever 
year.  It  came  at  last  to  this, — that  there 
was  not  one  record,  not  one  scrap  of  paper, 
9 


10  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

no  person  or  document  by  which  his  devo 
tion  and  service  to  the  Confederacy  might 
be  proved, — nothing  but  his  old  uniform. 

A  person  who  did  not  know  him  well 
would  not  have  guessed  how  deeply  he  felt 
on  this  subject.  He  was  a  most  reserved 
man,  and  it  was  a  part  of  his  reserve  that 
he  could  not  speak  of  the  time  of  the  Con 
federacy.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  feared 
to  make  the  subject  commonplace  or  even 
tedious  by  talking  of  it  to  his  children;  he 
had  seen  that  happen  in  families  of  his  ac 
quaintance.  But  the  real  reason  was  not 
that  he  did  not  want  to  speak — he  could  not. 

The  uniform,  at  first  almost  unconsidered, 
then  a  saddening  relic,  came  to  be  very 
precious.  Sometimes  in  the  reverent  silences 
of  the  church,  or  in  the  watches  of  a  wake 
ful  night,  he  found  himself  thinking:  "I 
shall  leave  no  inheritance  to  my  grandsons 
so  priceless  as  that  old  uniform  will  be. 
Looking  at  it,  our  cause  will  seem  real  to 
them,  and  because  of  me  they  will  study  the 
story  of  our  struggle." 


A  VISIBLE  SIGN  II 

The  Captain's  wife  and  daughters  regarded 
him  as  a  being  set  apart,  a  person  too  high 
and  fine  for  the  affairs  of  this  world.  There 
was  even  in  the  family  an  appearance  of 
making  up  to  him  for  something  lacking, 
although  he  himself  would  have  resented 
such  an  idea.  The  ladies  understood  him 
partly,  and  their  affection  carried  them  the 
rest  of  the  way  in  their  loving  and  gentle 
family  life.  They  were  never  so  busy  that 
he  was  not  the  one  to  be  considered  first. 
All  the  little  social  news  was  told  in  his 
presence.  It  was  not  addressed  to  him  di 
rectly,  but  was  intended  to  divert  him. 

He  liked  to  hear  of  the  historical  societies 
and  of  the  organizations  of  women  formed 
to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  heroic 
past.  His  daughters  brought  him  many 
stories  from  the  meetings  of  such  associ 
ations. 

4 'Mrs.  Conway's  great-great-grandfather 
was  one  of  the  signers!"  said  Patty. 

*'Yes;  but  she  can't  prove  that  he  was 
her  ,  great  -  great  -  grandfather !"  exclaimed 


12  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Fairfax.  "Now  Mrs.  Pinckney  has  the 
actual  letter  that  her  ancestor  wrote  from 
Valley  Forge." 

"But  didn't  that  letter  fade  away  into 
insignificance  when  Mrs.  Fauquier  brought 
out  her  relic?" 

4 'And  what  was  that?"  inquired  the  Cap 
tain,  with  much  interest. 

"Only  think,  father,  she  had  the  hat,  the 
actual  hat — cockade  and  all — that  her  an 
cestor  wore  through  the  North  Carolina 
campaign!" 

"Yes,"  said  Patty,  "we  walked  up  to 
look  at  it  without  a  word.  It  seemed  so 
wonderful  to  see  it  after  all  these  years.  It 
almost  made  me  tremble, — it  was  so  near 
and  real." 

The  Captain  did  not  speak;  it  made  his 
heart  beat  to  think  of  his  own  sacred  gray, 
and  of  a  past  that  it  would  some  day  re 
vivify. 

In  the  earlier  years  the  Captain  had  often 
looked  at  his  uniform.  Of  late  he  had  not 
cared  to  take  it  out;  it  was  like  going  to 


A  VISIBLE  SIGN-  13 

the  cemetery, — he  came  away  unsatisfied. 
It  pleased  him  to  think  of  it  as  safe  in  the 
little  trunk  in  the  attic,  but  he  did  not  wish 
to  see  it.  That  night  he  remembered  that 
it  had  been  a  long  time  since  he  had  looked 
at  it.  He  troubled  himself  about  the  chance 
of  moths  and  resolved  to  examine  it  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning. 

But  in  the  morning  his  desire  was  gone. 
Indeed,  it  was  only  when  the  trunk  was  to 
be  emptied  that  he  might  put  in  it  the  things 
for  a  little  journey,  that  he  spoke  of  the 
uniform. 

Then  he  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  called  to  Patty,  who  was  getting  to 
gether  what  he  was  to  take  with  him. 

"  Daughter,  bring  down  my  old  uniform 
when  you  empty  the  little  trunk. " 

He  heard  her  sweet,  clear  voice:  "Yes, 
father!"  He  heard  her  light  step  as  she 
walked  about  the  bare  floor  of  the  attic. 
Then  she  came  hurriedly  to  the  upper  bal 
ustrade  . 

" Father,  it  isn't  here!     There's  nothing 


1 4  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

in  the  trunk  but  a  roll  of  silk  pieces  and  an 
old  white  vest.  And  I've  looked  every 
where  else!" 

Mrs.  Lee  appeared  at  the  door  of  her 
room.  She  thought  that  her  husband  had 
replaced  the  uniform  in  the  trunk  after  it 
was  out  the  last  time.  He  supposed  that 
she  had  done  so.  Patty  was  called  from 
her  little  studio. 

" Patty,  come  here!  Do  you  know  any 
thing  about  father's  old  uniform?" 

Patty  came,  rosy  and  graceful.  She  stuck 
her  brushes  in  her  hair  and  pondered. 

' '  I  have  not  seen  it  since  father  took  the 
trunk  to  Tennessee  six  months  ago.  Then 
I  hung  it  in  the  attic  just  over  the  place 
where  the  little  trunk  always  stands.  I 
knew  father  always  liked  to  fold  it  himself." 

1 '  Has  anything  been  given  away  lately?" 
asked  Mrs.  Lee. 

Fairfax  overheard  her  mother's  question. 
Her  face  turned  blood  red  ;  she  put  her 
hand  to  her  head. 

"  Oh,  wait  a  minute  till  I  think!"  she 
said.  ' '  I  met  a  tramp  at  the  door  one  day 


A  VISIBLE  SIGN  15 

last  fall — I  was  just  going  to  a  card  party; 
I  called  to  that  light-colored  Tilly  we  had 
then  to  give  him  any  old  thing  that  might 
be  lying  around  the  attic." 

Her  father  turned  away  with  the  stooping 
gesture  of  a  man  who  has  had  a  heavy 
blow.  The  side  of  his  face  that  they  could 
see  was  gray  and  sunken. 

His  daughter  rushed  to  him;  she  clung  to 
him  wildly;  she  spoke  as  a  little  child  might 
speak.  "Oh,  papa,  papa,  don't!  Indeed 
I  didn't  know!  Oh,  please  forgive  me, 
papa!" 

The  Captain  could  not  speak  at  first;  his 
old  throat  made  queer  choking  noises,  buf 
he  patted  the  girl's  shoulder  reassuringly. 

"Do  not  blame  yourself,  my  daughter. 
It  is  a  misfortune;  we  must  learn  to  bear 
misfortunes. " 

The  Captain's  business  had  not  been 
pressing  for  many  years,  and  shortly  after 
the  loss  of  the  uniform  he  gave  up  active 
connection  with  the  firm  of  cotton-factors 
of  which  he  had  been  a  member.  His 


1 6  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

health  had  never  been  very  strong,  and  he 
spent  many  hours  at  home  with  the  ladies. 
On  fine  afternoons  he  walked  out  to  attend 
the  meeting  of  some  board  of  directors  or 
to  spend  a  little  while  in  the  office  of  his 
old  firm.  Once  or  twice  when  he  came  in 
he  spoke  of  the  dust,  and  how  it  showed  on 
his  dark  clothing. 

"I  wonder,  Mrs.  Lee,"  he  said,  "if  it 
would  be  out  of  the  way  for  me  to  get  a 
suit  of  light-colored  clothes,  such  as  the 
young  gentlemen  wear — one  of  those  tans, 
or,  maybe,  a  nice  gray?" 

He  spoke  of  it  again:  "Of  course  a  man 
of  my  age  wouldn't  want  one  of  those  bob- 
tailed  coats — if  I  should  get  a  light  suit. " 

The  suit  came  home;  the  color  was  a  clear 
gray;  there  was  a  long  frock  coat.  The 
Captain  buttoned  it  around  his  neat  figure 
with  grave  satisfaction. 

"Father  may  not  know  much  about  the 
styles,"  said  Fairfax,  "but  he's  awfully 
distinguished." 

He  wore  his  gray  suit  so  constantly  that 


A  VISIBLE  SIGN  17 

the  ladies  laughingly  spoke  of  it  as  his 
"uniform."  This  was  only  to  one  another; 
when  they  were  in  his  presence  there  was 
no  recognition  of  the  fact  that  there  was 
anything  to  be  remarked  about  his  clothing. 
It  was  felt  that  any  comment  would  hurt 
him.  Later  the  coat  was  sent  out  for  some 
repair.  When  it  came  home,  Patty  said,  in 
some  surprise,  "Why,  father,  the  tailor  has 
put  brass  buttons  on  it!" 

"So  he  has!"  exclaimed  the  Captain;  but 
the  buttons  were  not  removed. 

The  Captain  had  always  liked  a  slouch 
hat.  Now  he  wore  one  constantly.  He  let 
his  beautiful  smooth  hair  grow  long  and 
parted  it  far  down  over  one  ear.  "What 
picture  is  it  that  father  looks  like?"  asked 
Fairfax.  "He  looks  like  one  of  those  old 
daguerreotypes  taken  during  the  war  that 
grandmother  used  to  show  us  on  Sunday 
afternoons  when  we  were  little,"  answered 
her  sister. 

As  he  sat  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  ver 
anda  in  the  long  mornings,  the  Captain 


1 8  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

sometimes  looked  tenderly  at  the  sleeve  of 
his  gray  coat,  as  though  he  loved  to  see 
the  color  near  him.  And  in  the  evenings 
he  might  be  seen  pacing  back  and  forth  for 
hours  on  the  gallery  in  front  of  his  house, 
silent,  stern,  wrapped  in  contemplation  of 
a  lost  time,  clad  in  the  insignia  of  an  un- 
forgotten  past. 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY 

("The  end  of  society  is  the  individual." — Law  maxim.} 

THE  cabin  had  but  one  room;  at  one  end 
of  that  was  a  bedstead  high  puffed 
with  a  feather  bed,  though  the  month  was 
August ;  at  the  other  was  the  stove  on  which 
Alfaretta  was  cooking  the  supper.  A  child 
of  two  hung  on  her  skirt,  and  a  six-months- 
old  baby  was  tied  in  a  high  chair. 

Occasionally  she  looked  out  over  the 
swampy  prairie  toward  the  direction  from 
which  her  husband,  Sol,  might  come. 

Nine  months  before,  on  their  way  to 
Dakota,  they  had  halted  their  wagon  here 
when  Sol  had  hired  out  to  clear  the  swamp, 
and  Alfaretta,  with  her  tow-headed  child  in 
her  arms,  had  climbed  out  of  the  back  of 
the  wagon,  and  set  up  the  stove,  and  put 
the  bed  together. 

Sol's  partner  and  employer,  Asaph,  lived 

21 


22  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

in  a  cabin  three  miles  west.  He  had  un 
dertaken  to  clear  two  hundred  acres  of  land 
for  a  company  in  La  Fayette.  He  kept  an 
account  of  the  work  done  by  himself  and 
Sol  and  settled  once  a  month. 

This  was  settlement  day  and  Alfaretta 
knew  Sol  would  be  later  than  usual;  never 
theless  she  kept  looking  out  for  his  ap 
proach  with  a  sort  of  formless  anxiety. 
Asaph  could  read  and  write,  Sol  could  not. 
Sol  thought  Asaph  had  cheated  him  the  last 
two  times.  Alfaretta  did  not  doubt  that 
this  had  been  the  case,  although  her  experi 
ence  of  life  had  not  been  extended  enough 
to  give  her  much  reason  for  thinking  one 
thing  or  another.  She  had  married  at  fif 
teen,  and  her  life  before  that  had  been 
passed  partly  in  the  mountains  of  Tennes 
see,  and  partly  on  the  little  clay-soiled  farm 
in  Southwestern  Indiana  where  her  father 
had  "  sq-uatted."  The  three  years  since  her 
marriage  she  had  spent  for  the  most  part  in 
the  wagon.  Sol  had  been  anxious  to  better 
himself.  This  determination  and  the  fact 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY  23 

that  he  possessed  a  wagon  and  team  were 
evidences  that  he  was,  although  only  twenty- 
one  years  old,  a  man  of  some  capacity. 

At  sunset  Alfaretta  saw  him  coming  across 
the  clearing.  He  was  over  six  feet  high, 
and  blond  in  hair  and  beard.  Though  he 
carried  an  ax  over  his  shoulder  he  walked 
with  the  easy  swing  of  symmetrical  strength. 
Alfaretta  perceived  this  with  an  apprecia 
tion  for  which  she  had  no  medium  of  ex 
pression. 

When  he  came  in  without  addressing  her 
she  did  not  wonder.  He  was  silent  by  na 
ture,  and  at  any  time  had  but  little  to  say. 
Besides  this  the  months  the  two  had  passed 
in  almost  entire  isolation  had  developed 
between  them  an  understanding  independ 
ent  of  speech.  She  knew  his  thoughts  as  a 
dog  knows  the  moods  of  his  master.  The 
child  toddled  toward  him;  he  took  it  in  his 
arms  and  sat  silent  while  Alfaretta  spread  a 
newspaper  on  the  top  of  a  box  and  put  on 
it  the  skillet  of  fried  pork,  some  corn  pone, 
and  two  tin  cups  of  coffee. 


24  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

When  Sol  had  eaten  his  supper  his  wife 
asked,  "Wha'd  he  give  you  this  time?" 

"Fifty  cents  for  a  month's  work." 

"He's  give  us  some  meat  and  meal." 

Sol  made  no  response,  but  after  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  he  spoke  again. 

"He  says  I  owed  him  ten  dollars  last 
time.  He  says  that  was  in  the  paper  I 
signed." 

Alfarettadid  not  ask  if  this  was  true;  she 
knew  it  was  not.  But  she  did  not  know 
that  she  had  any  right  to  be  specially  in 
dignant.  That  they  should  be  forever 
cheated  and  betrayed  was  only  a  part  of  the 
order  of  things. 

Sol  went  outside  of  the  door  and  sat  there 
with  the  child  in  his  arms  while  he  smoked 
his  pipe.  Malarial  mists  rose  heavily  and 
almost  obscured  the  dull  after-glow  of  the 
sunset.  The  child  went  to  sleep,  and  he 
brought  it  in,  and  unclasping  its  little  arms 
took  its  apron  off  and  put  it  on  the  back  of 
the  bed. 

The  baby  was  fretful;  Alfaretta  soothed 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY  25 

it  to  sleep  again  and  again,  only  to  have  it 
waken  with  the  peevish  wail  of  a  teething 
child  whenever  she  tried  to  put  it  down. 
Mosquitos  and  gnats  came  in  swarms  and 
clouded  the  light  of  the  dingy  little  lamp, 
in  the  oil  of  which  floated  a  red  rag — put 
there  with  decorative  intent.  Sol  sat  on 
the  bed  for  another  half  hour  in  deep 
thought.  Then  he  rose  and  went  toward 
the  door. 

4 'Where  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  make  Asaph  square 
up." 

4  *  Well,  he  won't." 

He  had  taken  his  gun  up  as  she  spoke. 
Now,  he  answered,  *  *  Well,  if  he  don't  I'll 
kill  him." 

Such  a  threat  gave  Alfaretta  no  particular 
concern  at  the  moment.  She  had  heard 
such  threats  all  of  her  life;  they  were  the 
recourse  of  the  injured,  the  argument  of  the 
angry.  She  had  seen  men  who  had  killed 
others;  she  had  even  witnessed  a  shooting 
or  two  in  which  no  one  was  hurt.  But  no 


26  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

sooner  was  Sol  gone  than  she  became 
troubled.  She  tried  with  all  the  intensity 
of  which  she  was  capable  to  make  the  baby 
sleep,  to  force  him  to  stay  asleep.  When 
she  had  succeeded  she  came  out,  shutting 
the  cabin  door  softly  behind  her.  She  stood 
for  an  instant  as  if  in  doubt;  then  with  her 
arm  held  before  her  to  shield  her  face  from 
the  low-growing  bushes,  she  ran  at  full 
speed  across  the  marsh  toward  the  cabin  of 
Asaph. 

As  she  came  near  she  heard  the  sound  of 
loud  talking.  The  men  seemed  to  come 
out  of  the  door  together.  Their  tones  grew 
fiercer.  There  were  two  shots,  a  shriek,  an 
oath,  and  then  silence. 

As  Sol  strode  through  the  slashes  Alfaretta 
slipped  to  his  side  and  touched  his  arm.  He 
clutched  her  (he  shook  from  head  to  foot) 
and  dragged  her  out  into  the  moonlight  and 
looked  at  her.  She  was  crying  aloud. 

"  Damn  you,  be  still!"  he  said,  and  drove 
her  before  him  along  the  way  home. 

In  the  morning  Sol  put  on  his  other  shirt 


tHE  END  OF  SOCIETY  27 

from  the  box  under  the  bed.  He  lingered 
awhile,  as  if  waiting  for  something.  At 
about  seven,  however,  he  took  his  ax  and 
went  to  work. 

The  shirt  he  left  on  the  floor  was  blood 
stained — his  left  arm  had  been  grazed  by  a 
bullet.  When  he  got  home  Alfaretta  had 
washed  the  garment  and  it  hung  drying  on 
a  stump  near  the  door.  He  looked  at  it  and 
then,  sharply,  at  his  wife. 

At  first  Alfaretta  had  no  thought  but  sim 
ple  horror  at  the  deed.  She  had  been  so 
far  away  from  everything  that  she  had  no 
constant  realization  that  there  was  anyone 
in  the  world  but  themselves.  By  the  second 
morning  she  began  to  fear.  She  knew  that 
it  was  wrong  to  kill  and  the  possibility  of 
some  human  vengeance  occurred  to  her 
mind.  In  her  sleep  she  had  visions  of  the 
streets  in  Indianapolis  through  which  they 
had  passed  on  their  way.  There  were 
crowds  there,  always  moving,  and  moving. 

She  had  moments  of  that  strange  physical 
apprehension  of  danger  that  some  women 


28  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

call  nervousness.  She  was  frightened  into 
speechless  trembling  when  at  the  end  of  the 
third  day  Sol,  speaking  for  the  first  time, 
said,  "If  you  blab  you  ought  to  be  killed, 
too." 

By  this  time  he  did  not  eat  or  sleep,  but 
sat  in  one  position  all  day  long.  As  Alfa- 
retta  had  looked  about  for  a  place  to  lay 
the  little  baby,  Sol  had  held  out  his  hands. 
After  that  he  had  cared  for  it  altogether, 
except  when  he  gave  it  to  the  mother  to 
be  fed. 

One  day  he  put  his  head  forward  as  if  to 
listen.  Then  he  laid  the  child  down  gently 
and  walked  to  the  door.  Alfaretta  heard 
him  give  a  long  sigh.  In  a  moment  three 
men  on  horseback  came  in  view — the  sheriff 
and  two  deputies.  Sol  went  with  them 
without  resistance. 

While  Sol  was  in  jail  he  was  approached 
by  a  shystering  lawyer  who  had  heard  from 
a  turnkey  of  his  wounded  arm.  "Give  me 
twenty-five  dollars,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  get 
you  off.  It  was  self-defense. "  Sol  listened 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY  29 

to  what  the  other  had  to  propose  and  then 
said  simply,  "I  'low  it  wasn't  self-defense, 
I  reckon  I  wasn't  afred  of  Asaph's  killing 
me."  When  the  lawyer  lowered  his  price 
to  five  dollars  Sol  would  not  even  give  him 
so  much  out  of  the  money  for  which  his 
team  had  been  sold,  and  as  soon  as  he  could 
he  gave  every  cent  to  the  sheriff  to  be  kept 
for  Alfaretta. 

At  the  opening  of  the  trial  the  judge, 
finding  no  lawyer  acting  for  the  prisoner, 
asked  an  attorney  who  was  in  the  courtroom 
to  take  charge  of  the  case.  It  was  the  same 
man  who  had  approached  Sol  in  jail.  * '  Your 
honor," said  he,  "I  have  consulted  with  the 
prisoner  already,  and  I  can  only  advise  him 
to  plead  guilty." 

The  trial  was  soon  over.  When  Sol  was 
asked  if  he  was  guilty  or  not  he  looked  up 
as  if  bewildered  at  so  superfluous  a  ques 
tion.  "Yes,"  he  said,  " I  done  it." 

The  Land  Company  in  La  Fayette  had 
sent  a  skillful  lawyer  to  represent  them  in 
the  prosecution.  There  had  been  deeds  of 


30  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

violence  among  their  men  before  and  they 
were  sensitive.  He  was  able  to  show  that 
the  murder  had  been  wanton  and  cold 
blooded.  The  newspapers  were  saying, 
"  There  has  been  too  much  monkeying  with 
life  sentences,  and  getting  pardoned  out  in 
a  few  years.  What  this  county  needs  is  a 
little  hanging. "  Because  the  community 
had  felt  themselves  outraged  by  recent  fail 
ures  of  justice,  Sol's  plea  of  guilty  did  not 
serve,  as  it  ordinarily  would  have  done,  to 
mitigate  the  sentence  that  was  to  be  passed 
on  him. 

Alfaretta  was  not  at  the  trial.  The  county 
seat  was  far  away  and  she  had  no  one  with 
whom  to  leave  the  children.  Some  of  the 
neighbors  were  able  to  go  and  drove  four 
miles  out  of  their  way  on  their  return  to  tell 
her  that  Sol  had  been  sentenced  to  be 
hanged.  She  got  one  short  letter  from  her 
husband;  it  was  written  by  a  fellow-prisoner 
whose  lack  of  facility  in  writing  had  made 
him  abbreviate  the  sentences  out  of  all 
meaning.  A  few  days  before  the  time  set 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY  31 

for  the  hanging  she  walked,  carrying  both 
children,  to  a  farm  five  miles  away  and  got 
the  woman  of  the  house  to  engage  to  take 
charge  of  the  older  child  on  the  day  of  the 
execution.  In  preparation  she  had  already 
made  for  the  six  months  baby  who  was  to 
go  with  her  a  little  dress  of  pink  calico  and 
a  sun-bonnet  of  the  same. 

The  day  appointed  was  late  in  October, 
and,  although  clear,  very  chilly.  Alfaretta 
left  home  early  in  the  morning  and  took  her 
way  across  great  fields  of  soft  black  prairie 
earth  newly  plowed  for  the  planting  of 
winter  wheat,  or  sometimes  she  jumped  from 
one  little  grassy  pyramid  to  another  across 
the  frost-stiffened  swamp. 

The  nearest  railroad  was  five  miles  from 
her  cabin,  and  there  were  four  miles  more 
for  her  to  walk  to  the  county  seat  after  she 
left  the  cars.  She  was  admitted  at  once  to 
the  inclosure  at  the  Courthouse  when  she 
made  herself  known.  Someone  asked  her 
if  she  would  like  to  see  the  prisoner,  but 
while  she  dumbly  hesitated  a  deputy  said  it 


32  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

was  pretty  late  already  and  he  reckoned  Sol 
oughtn't  to  be  bothered. 

As  she  sat  there  in  front  of  the  scaffold 
the  silence  grew  deeper  and  deeper.  The 
crowd  around  her  changed  into  a  thousand 
presences,  near  and  oppressive.  The  offi 
cers  moved  back  and  forth  with  grave  and 
automatic  directness.  Everything  began  to 
swing  over  her  in  rhythmic  risings  and  fall 
ings.  Then  the  silence,  the  multitude,  the 
swaying  of  the  universe,  seemed  to  her 
sense  to  unite  in  the  cadences  of  some  awful 
force  hitherto  unknown. 

11  If  is  over,  life  is  over,  hope  is  over. 
Yon  two  have  never  been  alone,  never — not 
even  in  the  ivoods.  A  multitude  has  watched 
you.  They  all  have  watched  you — and  now 
they  have  taken  him,  and  now  they  are  going 
to  kill  him  ! — to  kill  him  /" 

She  saw  them  lead  out  the  condemned 
man.  He  had  on  new  black  clothes.  His 
eyes  were  glassy,  his  mouth  hung  open,  his 
head  wabbled  from  side  to  side.  He  had 
been  filled  with  morphine  and  brandy.  Men 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY  33 

held  him  up  on  either  side.  The  sheriff, 
pale  as  ashes,  turned  to  test  the  ropes  for 
the  last  time. 

Alfaretta  got  to  her  feet.  She  made  an 
effort  like  the  terrible  struggle  of  nightmare, 
but  no  voice  came.  An  agony  clutched  her 
whole  slender  little  frame.  She  screamed, 
she  shrieked. 

"He  never  knowed!  You're  doing  just 
what  he  done!  It  ain't  right!  It  ain't 
right!" 

She  was  pulled  down  into  her  seat.  The 
baby  began  to  wail.  She  opened  her  dress 
and  put  it  to  her  flat  young  breast. 

She  still  sat  there  as  the  crowd  dispersed. 
The  young  reporters  passed  near  her.  One 
said,  ''Oh,  there's  the  widow!"  and  taking 
out  his  note  book  turned  toward  her.  The 
other  drew  him  away.  4<Oh,  hell!  Ain't 
you  sick  enough  already?" 

A  deputy  came  to  inquire  if  she  wanted 

the    " remains."     She  made  some  sort  of 

affirmative  sign,  and  when  Sol's  body  was 

put  in  the  coffin  she  came   and  sat  down 

3 


34  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

beside  it  with  her  arm  over  the  box.  The 
sheriff  said  he  would  ask  some  of  the  folks 
that  were  going  that  way  to  carry  the  body 
as  far  as  the  train.  Later  he  came  back 
and  said  in  something  like  apology  that  the 
Balzer  boys  were  the  only  ones  he  could 
get. 

The  sheriff's  wife  left  her  hospitable 
kitchen — she  had  a  lot  of  company  to  dinner 
that  day — and  came  across  to  where  Alfa- 
retta  sat  in  front  of  the  jail  and  begged  her 
to  come  in  and  get  a  comfortable  dinner 
with  the  folks.  Alfaretta  looked  at  her  in 
silence  as  she  continued  with  kindly  insist 
ence.  "Oh,  come  right  on,  Miz  Hopper; 
you  know  you'd  ought  to  eat  to  keep  up 
your  strength."  Later  a  bareheaded  little 
girl  ran  over,  bringing  a  plate  on  which  was 
a  large  piece  of  custard  pie  and  some  sweet 
pickles,  and  a  cup  of  coffee  over-sugared 
and  creamed.  Alfaretta  gave  the  baby  a 
little  of  the  coffee. 

At  five  o'clock  the  Balzers  came  by. 
They  had  been  drinking,  but  were  quiet.  '  'I 


THE  END  OF  SOCIETY  35 

reckon  they'll  have  sense  enough  not  to 
talk  any  blaggard  talk  while  she's  along," 
the  sheriff  said,  anxiously,  as  they  passed 
out  of  sight. 

The  first  mile  they  were  silent.  Then 
they  stopped  and  drank  from  a  jug  which 
lay  at  their  feet.  Alfaretta  sat  in  the  rear 
end  of  the  wagon  on  some  straw.  Before 
they  had  gone  another  half  mile  they  were 
singing  and  yelling.  From  then  on  they 
were  drinking  constantly,  at  one  minute 
making  frightful  threats  to  anything  and 
everything,  at  another  uttering  horrible 
blasphemies.  Later  it  occurred  to  them  to 
ask  the  dead  man  to  drink.  They  turned 
in  the  seat  and  poured  whisky  on  the  head 
of  the  coffin. 

It  was  dark  when  they  reached  the  sta 
tion.  The  Balzers  had  grown  sullen  and 
quarrelsome.  The  agent  came  out  and 
helped  them  to  put  the  coffin  on  the  plat 
form  which  made  the  station — it  was  only 
a  place  where  the  train  took  water.  Then 
after  the  wagon  was  gone  the  agent  told 


36  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Alfaretta  that  he'd  got  to  go  to  his  supper, 
but  he'd  come  back  in  time  to  flag  the  eight 
o'clock  train.  She  saw  his  lantern  fade 
and  go  out  down  the  road. 

As  she  sat  there  the  night  grew  cold. 
Heavy  mists  rose  from  the  earth.  She  took 
off  her  shawl  to  put  around  the  baby,  and 
then  her  sun-bonnet  to  wrap  around  its 
little  feet. 

And  as  she  waited  alone  with  her  dead 
husband  she  knew  not  of  any  mercy  in  the 
hollow  swinging  earth  beneath  her,  nor  in 
the  empty  heavens  above. 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY  OF 
QUALITY 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY 
OF  QUALITY 


regular  Saturday  afternoon  meeting 
1  of  the  Woman's  Club  was  over.  It  had 
been  a  delightful  occasion;  the  club  mem 
bers  standing  about  the  room  in  little  groups 
said  to  each  other  that  it  had  been  a  "  beau 
tiful"  meeting.  They  were  prosperous- 
looking  women.  Some  of  them  were  pretty, 
some  far  from  it,  but  they  all  had  the  look 
of  belonging  to  that  class  which  subordinates 
the  physical,  and  gives  the  intellectual  part 
of  their  natures  at  least  a  fair  chance. 

Many  of  them  lingered  to  speak  to  the 
President  of  the  club.  She  had  read  the 
paper  of  the  day.  Her  theme  had  been 
"The  Divinity  of  Man."  Everybody  was 
charmed. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  an  angel!"  said  one 

39 


4°  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

lady.  "  Now  that  I've  heard  you,  I'd  rather 
be  a  human  being!" 

"I  seemed  to  recognize  it  as  my  own 
subconscious  thinking,"  said  another. 
' '  *  Humanity  shares  in  the  holiness  of  the 
universe!'" 

4 'Oh!"  cried  a  third,  "I  did  like  it  when 
you  said  that  we  are  all  of  the  same  essence 
—  'Call  no  man  common  or  unclean;  he  is 
in  God,  as  we  are  in  God!"' 

Mrs.  Owen  stood  smiling  and  flushed  in 
the  middle  of  the  eager  group.  Her  breath 
was  still  coming  fast  from  the  emotion  of 
her  subject.  She  gave  both  hands  to  those 
near  her.  "Thank  you,  dear."  "Oh,  how 
kind  you  are!"  ««  Yes,"  to  another,  "when 
one  gets  possession  of  the  thought  it  clears 
away  everything.  All  that  is  wrong  rights 
itself." 

Some  young  girls  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
circle,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  approach  her. 
"  Isn't  Mrs.  Owen  lovely?"  said  one.  "She 
herself  makes  everything  she  says  seem  so 
exquisite!" 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY  OF  QUALITY  41 

1 '  I'm  not  sure  we  have  a  right  to  feel  that," 
answered  her  friend.  "The  truth  ought  to 
go  by  its  own  strength,  without  any  charm 
ing  woman  to  fire  it  off.  For  myself,  I  try 
to  listen  to  everything  I  hear  as  if  it  were 
uttered  by  a  young  man  with  big  feet,  no 
chin,  and  a  prominent  Adam's  apple!" 

"Well,  that  doesn't  make  Mrs.  Owen 
any  less  lovely,  does  it?"  asked  the  first. 

"Oh,  no! — and  she  believes  all  she 
says!" 

The  club  members  passed  out.  Mrs. 
Owen  remained  to  speak  to  the  custodian 
of  the  rooms.  As  she  waited  she  was  con 
scious  of  a  sort  of  exaltation.  She  reveled 
in  the  thought  of  her  own  happiness.  Every 
thing  pleased  her.  From  the  first  she  had  had 
great  faith  in  the  woman's  club  idea.  Her 
society  had  prospered  beyond  all  expecta 
tion.  She  looked  about  her;  the  beautiful 
building  in  which  she  was  had  been  built  by 
the  members  of  the  club,  and  consecrated 
to  the  uses  of  women  and  children.  In  the 
rooms  nearest  was  an  art  school  for  working- 


42  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

girls;  upstairs  a  Delsarte  teacher  was  in 
structing  fifty  children. 

Every  day  brought  to  her  fresh  signs  of 
the  intellectual  activity  of  the  town.  And, 
she  thought,  spiritually  everything  was  bet 
ter  than  it  had  been — there  was  surely  less 
gossip,  less  malicious  criticism!  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  might  count  the  time  near 
when  men  would  be  true  and  wise,  and 
women  free  and  strong. 

She  went  smiling  down  the  stairway,  a 
crowd  of  children  from  the  upper  floor  troop 
ing  after  her.  From  the  club  she  was  to 
go  for  her  husband  and  take  him  with  her 
to  a  reception;  it  was  because  of  this  recep 
tion  that  she  was  dressed  more  showily  than 
she  would  otherwise  have  been.  The  four- 
o'clock  whistle  of  a  factory  around  the  cor 
ner  had  just  sounded.  At  the  foot  of  the 
steps  she  looked  ahead  of  her  quickly,  and 
then  turned  to  the  children  above  her.  * '  Go 
back!"  she  cried;  "Go  back  instantly!" 

As  she  reached  the  street  she  had  come 
between  two  men.  One  had  run  past  her, 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY  OF  QUALITY  43 

bareheaded  and  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  There 
was  fury  in  his  face,  and  shame  too.  He 
stopped  suddenly,  his  hand  at  his  hip,  and 
turned  on  the  man  who  pursued  him. 
"  Don't  you  touch  me!"  he  shouted;  "I've 
got  a  gun!" 

As  he  spoke  his  pursuer  closed  with  him ; 
they  went  to  the  earth  together  in  fierce 
writhings.  Mrs.  Owen  threw  out  her  hands 
and  looked  about  for  help.  The  people 
who  a  moment  before  crowded  the  street 
had  moved  back  into  a  ring.  She  was  in 
the  middle  of  it,  the  two  struggling  men  at 
her  feet.  She  said  to  those  nearest  her: 
"Can't  you  stop  it?  This  is  awful!"  The 
spectators  grinned  sheepishly.  One  nudged 
his  neighbor  with  his  elbow,  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  but  with  a  distinct  imitation  of 
her  tone,  ' «  Can't  you  stop  this,  Jim?"  Mrs. 
Owen  tried  to  look  away,  but  she  could  not. 
Either  the  horror  of  the  thing  had  deadened 
her  senses  so  she  could  not  feel  it,  or  it  was 
not  horrible.  At  any  rate,  she  looked ;  more 
than  that,  she  knew  she  wanted  to  look. 


44  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

She  scrutinized  the  two  men;  they  were 
shabby,  undersized,  ill  fed.  She  heard  the 
blows,  and  even  wondered:  "I  did  not 
know  that  flesh  striking  flesh  would  make 
a  sound  like  that!"  She  saw,  too,  another 
thing  that  surprised  her — a  blow  did  not 
bring  blood  at  once;  first  the  flesh  was 
white,  then  the  blood  oozed  to  the  surface. 
They  rolled  and  tossed  from  edge  to  edge 
of  the  sidewalk.  One  bit  the  other's  ear, 
and  chewed  at  it  furiously.  The  other 
heaved  and  tossed  in  fierce  effort  to  get  at 
his  opponent's  throat.  As  they  fought  they 
uttered  sharp  little  cries.  It  seemed  that 
the  pursuer  was  getting  the  best  of  it;  the 
other  man  for  a  moment  made  no  resistance. 
Immediately  the  reason  was  evident;  he  was 
trying  to  get  his  pistol  out  of  his  pocket. 
Another  half-turn  and  he  would  have  it. 
"Let  me  up!"  he  shouted,  as  the  other 
ground  his  elbow  into  his  chest ;  "I  don't 
want  to  kill  you!"  The  other  gave  no  heed; 
his  face  was  full  of  inhuman  fury.  It  seemed 
as  if  nothing  could  reach  him.  The  first 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY  OF  QUALITY  45 

man  got  his  hand  on  his  pistol — in  a  breath 
there  would  be  murder! 

Mrs.  Owen  sprang  at  the  two.  She 
clutched  the  upper  man  by  the  arms.  ' '  Get 
up  this  minute!"  she  said.  "Drop  him!" 

He  looked  around  stupidly.  A  lady,  pale 
and  beautiful,  held  him  by  the  shoulders. 
A  slow  surprise  came  over  his  distorted  fea 
tures.  His  hands  fell.  He  let  her  drag 
him  to  his  feet.  She  held  him  tightly  by 
the  wrists  as  they  stood. 

The  other  one  sat  up  and  looked  blankly 
at  the  bloody  pavement.  ' '  Go !"  she  cried. 
He  staggered  to  an  upright  position,  his 
pistol  in  his  hand.  As  he  turned,  the  man 
she  held  began  to  cry.  He  looked  hideous 
— like  an  ugly  baby.  « '  Lady, "  he  said,  ' ' 1 
never  gave  her  a  hard  word  since  we  was 
married!" 

The  pursued  man  had  reeled  a  few  feet 
down  the  street;  he  turned,  and  without  a 
word  of  warning  shot  full  into  the  crowd 
once — and  again. 

By  some  chance  no  one  was  hit,  but  on 


46  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

the  instant  the  silent  street  broke  into  mo 
tion.  Men  shouted  and  pushed  forward  and 
back,  and,  as  if  they  had  sprung  from  the 
earth,  two  policemen  appeared,  swinging 
their  clubs  as  they  ran.  One  seized  the 
man  with  the  pistol,  who  looked  at  him 
with  a  silly,  bewildered  smile  on  his  bloody 
face.  The  other  bore  down  on  the  whim 
pering  wretch  that  Mrs.  Owen  still  held. 
He  laid  hold  of  him  with  that  ferocity  that 
makes  manifest  the  majesty  of  the  law. 
Then  he  turned. 

"Lady  in  the  scrap?"  he  asked,  indi 
cating  Mrs.  Owen  with  a  fat  thumb. 

The  crowd  surged  down  the  street,  leav 
ing  Mrs.  Owen  almost  alone.  Some  street 
boys,  torn  with  vain  regrets,  rushed  by  her 
in  hot  chase.  The  janitress  of  the  building 
hurried  down  the  stair. 

"Won't  you  come  up  and  wait  for  your 
carnage?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Owen;  "I'll  wait  here." 
But  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  move. 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  A  LADY  OF  QUALITY  47 

"Tell  the  coachman  to  come  to  Mr.  Owen's 
office  for  me." 

As  she  started  she  had  a  mechanical  sort 
of  perception  that  her  beautiful  garments 
were  not  suited  to  the  street.  Then  she 
knew  that  she  was  saying  to  herself,  ' '  That 
is  what  I  might  think;  really  I  don't  care 
in  the  least  about  it — or  about  anything!" 
She  loathed  herself;  she  had  a  sickening 
consciousness  that  she  was  part  of  it  all, 
and  that  those  brutes  were  part  of  her. 

Suddenly  she  thought,  "Oh,  how  sleepy 
I  am!"  Then,  with  the  woman's  club  habit 
of  analysis,  "How  strange  that  I  should  be 
sleepy!"  She  was  in  front  of  a  wholesale 
hardware  shop.  She  leaned  for  a  moment 
on  a  convenient  keg  of  nails,  to  the  admira 
tion  of  a  banana  peddler. 

A  little  later  she  walked  into  her  hus 
band's  office,  past  a  boy  who  was  screwing 
down  a  copying-press  and  a  young  man  who 
talked  a  denunciatory  letter  into  a  phono 
graph.  She  opened  a  door  marked  Mr. 
Owen.  Her  husband  sat  at  a  desk  writing; 


48  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

he  smiled,  but  did  not  raise  his  eyes  above 
the  border  of  her  skirt. 

"That  you,  Amy?  Sit  down;  I'll  be  done 
in  a  minute." 

She  put  her  hand  against  the  casing  of 
the  door.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
go  no  farther.  At  the  end  of  the  line  her 
husband  looked  up.  "What  is  it,  Amy?" 
he  cried,  hastening  toward  her.  "What 
makes  you  so  pale?" 

She  smiled  at  him  mistily.  "I  guess, 
Richard,"  said  she,  "I  guess  you'd  be  pale, 
too,  if  you'd  just  been  in  a  scrap!" 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH 


A  PART   OF  THE   NEW  SOUTH 

AT  the  time  of  Lee's  surrender  the  Cap 
tain  was  in  Virginia;  it  was  six  weeks 
later  when  he  reached  his  plantation.  The 
driver  of  the  wagon  hired  to  bring  him  from 
Natchez  put  him  down  with  some  pre 
tense  of  apology  at  the  big  gate  a  half  mile 
from  the  house.  Weak  and  ill  though  he 
was,  he  did  not  object,  for  he  wanted  to  be 
alone  a  few  moments  before  he  reached 
home.  He  had  been  stunned  by  defeat  and 
disaster,  and  thus  far  had  not  been  able  to 
think  clearly  of  the  future. 

As  he  went  up  the  leaf-strewn  avenue  he 
saw  the  whole  situation  plainly.  The  fight 
was  over,  the  old  hopes  were  dead,  he  must 
bury  them  out  of  sight  and  take  up  with 
single  mind  the  life  that  lay  ahead.  He 
had  served  through  the  entire  war,  his  health 
5* 


52  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

was  broken,  his  fortune  was  gone;  but  he 
was  not  dismayed. 

"A  man's  spirit  is  his  own,"  he  thought. 
"Defeat  cannot  crush  it,  nor,  unless  he 
consent,  can  any  misfortune  take  it  from 
him."  And  then  he  saw  his  wife's  white 
dress  float  across  the  gallery  as  she  came 
to  meet  him. 

It  was  evident  almost  at  once  that  Cap 
tain  Lee  must  give  up  the  plantation  to  his 
creditors.  Before  he  went  into  the  army 
he  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  but  they 
had  nothing  to  live  on  while  he  should  wait 
for  a  practice.  He  took  the  first  employ 
ment  he  could  get — a  situation  as  clerk  in 
a  cotton  house — and  went  to  work  as  ear 
nestly  and  simply  as  if  he  had  never  meant 
to  do  anything  else. 

The  new  way  of  living  upon  which  the 
Lees  entered  was  very  different  from  any 
thing  which  they  had  known  before,  but 
Mrs.  Lee  went  into  its  hardships  as  unrepin- 
ingly  as  did  her  husband,  and  gayly  too. 
She  found  a  score  of  new  interests.  She  bor- 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  53 

rowed  recipes  and  learned  to  be  a  frugal 
housekeeper;  she  practiced  her  economies 
with  the  air  of  a  princess.  She  went  much 
into  society,  wearing  her  old  finery  so  con 
vincingly  that  other  women  thought  they 
had  been  misinformed  about  the  fashions. 

The  Captain's  salary  was  soon  increased, 
and  before  many  years  a  partnership  was 
offered  to  him.  He  and  his  wife  had  meant 
that  as  soon  as  their  affairs  grew  a  little 
brighter  he  should  take  up  the  practice  of 
law,  but,  when  the  time  came  to  decide,  he 
at  once  gave  up  all  idea  of  following  the 
profession  which  he  loved.  His  own  pref 
erences  and,  stronger  still,  the  traditions  of 
his  race  were  set  aside  for  the  chance  of 
more  speedily  securing  ease  for  those  de 
pendent  on  him. 

They  went  North  for  a  few  weeks  every 
summer,  and  it  sometimes  happened  that 
the  Captain  was  asked  if  he  were  related  to 
the  great  General  whose  name  was  the 
same  as  his  own.  He  answered  in  the  neg 
ative  as  briefly  as  was  possible  in  so  court- 


54  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

ecus  a  man,  nor  did  he  ever  follow  the 
lead  thus  given  and  talk  of  the  time  of  the 
Confederacy. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Lee  to  him  one 
day  at  Mackinac,  "that  you  did  not  respond 
more  cordially  to  that  gentleman.  He 
showed  such  a  nice  spirit.  I  should  think 
you  would  be  interested  in  talking  the  sub 
ject  over  with  an  intelligent  person  on  the 
other  side." 

The  Captain  looked  at  her  with  his  fine, 
gentle  face  drawn  with  feeling.  ' '  Oh,  Mrs. 
Lee,  don't  you  know  that  I  cannot  talk  it 
over?  It  is  too  near — it  hurts  too  much." 

But  after  that,  he  might  have  been  seen 
trying  to  make  special  amends  in  the  way 
of  courtesy  to  the  Northern  gentleman.  He 
played  whist  with  him  for  a  partner,  and 
watched  him  lead  from  a  short  suit  with 
unflinching  politeness;  and  he  listened  with 
interest  to  all  that  the  other  had  to  say  of 
the  surpassing  attractions  the  state  of  Iowa 
presented  as  a  place  of  residence. 

To  his  wife  only  did  the  Captain  speak 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  55 

of  the  past.  She  listened  always  with  ten 
der  interest,  but  one  day  she  said:  "Those 
times  must  always  be  sacred  and  precious 
to  you  and  me,  but  is  it  wise  to  dwell  much 
on  what  is  over?  Should  we  not  fill  our 
minds  as  much  as  possible  with  other  inter 
ests?"  He  thanked  her  for  her  candor. 
"You  are  right,  dear;  we  must  think  of  the 
present. " 

The  Captain's  two  little  daughters  were 
born  after  the  circumstances  of  the  family 
had  grown  brighter — they  were  a  part  of 
the  new  and  prosperous  life.  In  their  child 
hood  he  spent  much  time  with  them,  and  he 
invariably  treated  them  with  the  courtesy 
he  would  have  shown  to  young  ladies.  The 
thought  of  reproving  them,  or  finding  fault 
with  them,  would  have  given  him  pain. 
He  listened  to  the  talk  of  his  associates  on 
the  fertile  theme  of  how  to  bring  up  chil 
dren  as  if  he  had  no  share  in  such  cares. 
"  No  doubt  a  boy  may  need  at  times  to  be 
disciplined,  but  a  little  girl! — I  have  not 


S  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

known  any  instance  where  a  little  girl  did 
anything  that  you  could  call  wrong." 

The  Captain's  daughters  grew  up  into 
beautiful,  capable  young  women.  They 
were  sent  North  to  school  and  came  home 
with  an  amount  of  Latin  and  science  that 
startled  their  father.  Their  natural  charm 
still  further  heightened  by  cultivation  and  by 
conscious  endeavor,  they  soon  were  recog 
nized  belles.  Their  fondness  for  dancing 
and  finery  and  all  kinds  of  social  gayety  was, 
in  their  father's  opinion,  only  natural.  But 
they  united  with  these  seasonable  instincts 
others  that  were  less  easy  of  comprehen 
sion.  Miss  Fairfax  hastened  to  join  the 
Woman's  Club,  and  studied,  and,  it  was 
said,  mastered  the  Previous  Question.  Miss 
Patty  worked  in  the  Art  League.  The 
Captain  in  his  heart  did  not  quite  see  the 
use  of  all  this,  but  he  stood  by  his  daugh 
ters  loyally. 

" There's  a  lot  of  foolishness  going  on!" 
said  an  old  gentleman  to  him  as  they  walked 
down  the  magnolia-shaded  street  one  morn- 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  57 

ing.  "  These  clubs  are  no  place  for  a 
woman.  A  woman  ought  to  stay  at  home 
and  attend  to  her  house  and  her  children." 

The  Captain  saw  that  his  friend  had  for 
gotten  that  he  was  speaking  to  a  man  whose 
wife  and  daughters  were  active  in  the  very 
work  that  he  condemned.  He  had  a  mo 
ment's  embarrassment;  he  would  not  mor 
tify  the  gentleman  by  reminding  him  of  it, 
but  he  could  not  even  seem  to  acquiesce  in 
what  might  be  a  criticism  of  the  ladies  of 
his  family. 

"I  have  looked  into  the  matter  rather 
closely,"  he  hastened  to  say,  "and  I  do 
not  find  any  ground  for  the  misgiving  that 
you  entertain.  The  ladies  meet  as  ladies, 
to  discuss  in  a  modest  and  thoughtful  man 
ner  themes  of  an  elevating  nature.  And," 
he  continued,  warming  up  to  his  subject, 
"it  is  my  conviction  that  anything  a  lady 
does  is  right.  The  hand  of  woman,  sir, 
glorifies  and  blesses  whatever  it  rests 
upon." 

He  came  indeed  to  take  pleasure  in  the 


58  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

doings  of  the  societies.  When  Fairfax  was 
appointed  to  write  a  paper  on  the  Poets  of 
the  Elizabethan  Age,  he  was  more  inter 
ested  in  the  subject  than  was  the  young 
woman  herself.  He  sent  away  for  books 
and  went  over  the  half-forgotten  volumes 
that  had  come  to  him  from  his  father's 
library;  and  when  her  paper  was  completed 
he  read  it  with  much  pleasure. 

"I  certainly  was  surprised  at  its  excel 
lence,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Lee.  "The  essay 
not  only  evinces  study,  but  also  manifests  a 
very  considerable  degree  of  taste  and  sensi 
bility,  and  a  not  unfeminine  perception  of 
humor.  The  style  might  be  thought  a  little 
abrupt,  and  the  language  in  some  places  in 
clined  to  colloquialism;  but  those  are  faults 
that  may  be  cured  by  observation  and  ap 
plication.  I  shall  recommend  her  to  the 
careful  reading  of  Addison  for  a  month  or 
two,  with  something  of  Washington  Irving 
to  give  her  expression  the  modern  cast." 

In  the  infancy  of  the  little  girls  the  Cap 
tain  had  said  to  his  wife,  "  Our  children  are 


"A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  59 

our  dearest  possession  and  we  want  to  keep 
them  near  us.  Let  us  always  respect  their 
individuality  and  ever  encourage  them  to  ap 
proach  us  with  perfect  freedom."  In  this 
there  was  no  doubt  that  he  succeeded;  the 
young  ladies  were  free  to  utter  their  thoughts 
on  any  subject  that  might  come  up.  As 
they  sat  at  the  table  one  evening  Miss  Fair 
fax  mused  deeply.  Suddenly  she  spoke: 

"The  whole  theory  of  this  government," 
said  she,  "is  wrong  and  impracticable! 
The  answer  for  our  difficulty  lies,  I  have  no 
doubt,  in  some  form  of  socialism!" 

The  Captain  almost  jumped  out  of  his 
chair  in  horror  and  indignation.  * '  Good 
heavens,  child,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
Socialism  means  atheism  — the  destruction 
of  private  rights — anarchy — everything  else 
that  is  bad!" 

"Oh,  that's  not  argument,  father,"  she 
responded  calmly,  <(  that's  just  violence. 
We  will  talk  the  matter  over,  and  I  am 
almost  sure  I  can  convince  you." 

The  Captain  looked  for  an  instant  at  the 


60  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

pretty  and  fashionable  young  person  who 
had  gravely  made  this  suggestion,  and  then 
(a  most  unusual  thing  for  him)  he  broke 
into  a  laugh,  "Well,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"I  wonder  what  my  father  would  have 
done  if  I  had  made  such  a  speech  as  that  to 
him." 

But  it  was  plain  that  he  had  something 
on  his  mind  all  the  evening,  and  before  they 
separated  for  the  night  he  spoke  to  Fairfax 
seriously. 

" Daughter, "  he  said,  <4I  can  hardly  be 
lieve  that  you  were  in  earnest  in  your  talk 
about  the  theory  of  our  national  existence. 
A  republic  like  ours  is  the  best  form  of  gov 
ernment  on  which  the  sun  ever  shone;  the 
principles  on  which  it  is  founded  are  the 
noblest  ever  conceived  by  human  intellect. 
An  American  should  be  proud  to  lay  down 
his  life  in  the  defense  of  these  principles, 
and  he  should  feel,  with  reverent  gratitude, 
that  they  have  had  the  special  blessing  of 
the  Almighty  as  well  as  the  applause  of  the 
world." 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  61 

"I  was  right  much  worried  to  see  that 
you  took  Fairfax's  nonsense  so  seriously," 
said  Mrs.  Lee,  when  they  were  alone. 
"  You  mustn't  mind  it, — it's  just  her  way  of 
talking." 

The  Captain  was  not  to  be  reassured. 
"I  feel,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  neglected 
one  of  the  most  sacred  duties  of  a  parent. 
I  have  not,  as  I  should  have  done,  day  by 
day  instilled  into  the  minds  of  my  children 
that  patriotism  which  is  one  of  the  highest 
qualities  of  any  soul,  and  without  which  a 
nation,  like  an  uprooted  plant,  will  surely 
perish.  And  the  natural  outgrowth  of  my 
carelessness  is  the  alarming  view  held  by 
my  own  daughter." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you're  feeling  it  too  much," 
his  wife  answered.  "We're  just  like  other 
parents.  Nobody  talks  much  to  their  chil 
dren  about  that  sort  of  thing  nowadays.  I 
know  they  don't  in  the  North.  Perhaps  the 
way  you  and  I  were  brought  up  is  a  little 
out  of  style  now,"  she  added,  laughingly. 

"My  love,  this   is   hardly   a   matter   of 


62  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

fashion,"  said  the  Captain,  with  dignity. 
"It  is  a  question,  is  it  not,  of  what  is  true?" 

Shortly  after  this,  in  his  gentle  way,  he 
asked  his  daughters  to  read  the  Declaration 
of  Independence,  and  spoke  more  than  once 
of  Washington  and  La  Fayette.  ' '  They 
belong  to  us  as  much  as  they  did  to  our 
forefathers,"  he  said,  "and  we  may  well 
profit  by  the  study  of  their  lives  and  mo 
tives." 

One  beautiful  evening  in  April  the  Cap 
tain  stood  on  the  gallery  and  looked  down 
across  the  lawn.  The  magnolia  trees  were 
in  full  bloom  and  there  were  roses  every 
where.  The  air  was  deliciously  sweet,  and 
there  was  something  peaceful  and  reminis 
cent  in  the  scene.  It  brought  back  to  him 
the  time  when  all  the  year  was  glowing  and 
tender  as  an  April  afternoon. 

As  he  stood,  he  heard  the  sound  of  a 
horn,  then  merry  shouts  and  laughing  and 
the  noise  of  wheels.  He  saw  the  coach 
coming  on  which  his  daughters  had  gone  to 
the  races  that  afternoon.  In  his  dignified 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  63 

way  he  started  down  the  long  drive  to  meet 
the  young  ladies,  but  before  he  had  gone 
ten  steps  some  young  men  sprang  to  the 
earth  and  held  outstretched  arms  to  the 
girls.  The  Captain  saw  his  daughters  jump 
from  what  seemed  to  him  dizzy  heights,  he 
saw  them  light  like  bubbles  in  a  swirl  of 
lace  and  silken  flounces.  The  coach  drove 
away,  good-byes  were  shouted  and  waved, 
the  horn  sounded  out  merrily  as  the  great 
vehicle  swung  along  under  the  trees. 

As  the  Captain  looked  at  the  scene, 
memories  came  to  him.  He  thought  of  his 
gentle  mother,  dead  in  his  youth;  how 
softly  she  moved,  how  frail  and  fine  she 
seemed.  And  then  he  remembered  his  wife 
when  he  was  courting  her — "the  lily  of 
Tupelo  County,"  they  called  her.  He  saw 
her  again,  stepping  from  her  father's  car 
riage;  the  tip  of  one  tiny  satin  shoe  peeped 
from  the  folds  of  her  rich  robe,  and  she 
lightly  touched  with  the  ends  of  her  gloved 
fingers  the  arm  of  the  gentleman  who,  hat 


°4  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

in  hand,  eyes  on  the  ground,  had  the  honor 
of  assisting  her  to  alight! 

The  young  women  saw  him  coming  to 
ward  them.  They  noticed  his  fine  military 
bearing  and  his  clear-cut,  high-bred  fea 
tures.  "  Doesn't  he  look  awfully  swell?" 
said  Fairfax.  "Doesn't  he  look  awfully 
sweet?"  answered  her  sister. 

They  quickened  their  steps  into  a  run. 
" Bless  your  heart!"  cried  Fairfax,  "how 
solemn  he  looks,  doesn't  he,  Patty?" 

' '  I  should  say  so, "  Patty  answered,  put 
ting  her  arm  around  his  slim  old  waist.  ' ( He 
looks  as  if  he'd  lost  something  and  couldn't 
find  it." 

"I  guess  he  thought  he'd  lost  his  supper," 
declared  Fairfax.  '  *  He'll  feel  better  when 
he's  had  a  'square  meal' — as  mother  would 
say,"  she  added,  roguishly. 

The  Captain  looked  at  her  with  reluctant 
disapprobation.  He  stopped  as  they  were 
entering  the  dining-room  door.  "  My  dear," 
said  he,  *'  I  do  not  think  I  ever  heard  your 
mother  make  use  of  that  expression. " 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  65 

The  sisters  smiled  at  each  other.  <(Oh, 
father,  you  are  hopeless,"  said  one  of  them. 
' '  I  don't  believe  you'd  know  a  joke  if  you 
met  it  coming  up  the  big  road." 

"Then  that's  a  good  reason  why  you  all 
shouldn't  tease  him,"  said  Mrs.  Lee. 

At  the  table  the  two  paid  their  father 
every  pretty  attention.  They  told  him,  as 
they  knew  he  liked  to  be  told,  fully  and  in 
detail,  about  the  races  and  everything  that 
had  happened.  They  were  very  bright  in 
their  talk,  and  he  was,  as  he  would  have 
said,  much  "  diverted"  by  it.  He  admired 
their  wit,  their  grace,  and  their  shrewd 
common  sense.  But  their  point  of  view 
was  not  his;  he  had  felt  this  vaguely  before, 
now  he  saw  it  clearly.  There  was  a  differ 
ence;  his  wife  could  come  to  a  subject  in 
the  way  that  they  did;  but  he  felt  himself 
an  alien. 

And  yet,   even  as  he  perceived  this,   it 

seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  a  forgotten  self 

reflected  in  his  daughters.     The   spirit    of 

his  college  days  came  to  him  like  a  faint 

5 


66  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

echo  through  their  gay  discourse;  he  almost 
heard  his  own  voice  as  they  spoke. 

' '  Something  dreadful  must  have  happened 
to  me!"  he  thought — " something  awful 
— or  I  should  have  kept  on  being  quick  and 
free-minded,  just  the  way  that  they  are." 

He  was  disturbed  and  bewildered.  The 
pressure  of  a  situation  he  could  not  under 
stand  was  on  him.  When  the  young  ladies 
were  gone  he  turned  to  his  wife.  He  rec 
ognized  fondly  as  he  did  so  that  through 
everything  she  was  the  same.  He  thought 
that  she  looked  as  young  as  her  daughters, 
and  her  face,  with  its  colorless  olive  skin 
and  its  soft,  dark  eyes,  had  an  effect  of  dis 
tinction  that  was  lacking  in  the  blooming 
beauty  of  the  girls.  But  he  could  not  find 
words  in  which  to  express  his  question,  and 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  wished  to  ask. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "our  daughters  are 
certainly  very  pretty." 

His  wife  looked  at  him  with  candid,  laugh 
ing  eyes.  "Is  that  all  you  can  say,  Mr. 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  67 

Lee?  Now,  I  think  they  are  the  nicest  girls 
in  the  world." 

"Oh,  so  do  I,"  he  hastened  to  declare. 
"But  are  they  like  other  girls?" 

' '  Certainly  they  are, "  she  answered,  ' '  ex 
cept  that  they  are  brighter  than  most  girls." 

"But,  my  dear,"  he  urged,  "they  are 
not  as  you  used  to  be!" 

"No,"  she  sighed.  "I  try  not  to  be  en 
vious  when  I  see  how  much  better  a  chance 
my  daughters  have  than  I  ever  had." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Captain,  "I  know 
the  times  are  changed,  but  do  you  think 
that  with  this  modern  spirit  there  is  rever 
ence  for  the  old  ways — respect  for  the  things 
that  stand  for  them  ?"  He  hesitated.  ' « Do 
you  suppose  that  Fairfax  or  my  little  Patty 
would  care  for  those  ideas  that  have  been 
dearer  than  life  to  me?" 

His  wife  answered  easily,  "Oh,  Mr.  Lee, 
the  girls  are  young;  we  mustn't  expect  much 
of  them  yet." 

The  Captain  turned  his  head  and  saw 
Patty  coming  toward  him.  She  had  been 


68  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

in  the  next  room  and  had  heard  his  ques 
tions.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Father,"  said  she,  "we  are  not  fine, 
like  you  and  mother."  Then  she  smiled. 
"But  you  must  remember  that  we  hadn't 
the  same  advantages  in  our  youth." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  fondly.  ' '  You 
two  are  father's  dear  treasures." 

Shortly  after  this  Miss  Patty  went  to  visit 
a  friend  whose  husband,  an  officer  in  the 
regular  army,  was  stationed  at  the  Post  at 
San  Antonio.  In  her  first  letters  she  often 
mentioned  Lieutenant  Walters,  It  was  he 
who  sent  the  flowers  and  arranged  the  rid 
ing  parties.  Then  she  wrote  no  more  about 
him.  Later  she  said,  "They  all  talk  a  lot 
about  what  a  good  family  Mr.  Walters  be 
longs  to.  Ask  father  if  he  ever  heard  of 
a  Colonel  Horatio  Walters  who  was  in  the 
Federal  army." 

"Patty  is  too  absurd!"  exclaimed  Fairfax. 
"  She  thinks  as  we  did  when  we  were  little, 
that  father  knows  everything  and  everybody 
in  the  round  world." 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  69 

"Her  instinct,  if  it  be  instinct,  is  not 
misplaced  this  time,"  said  the  Captain;  "I 
have  known  of  Horatio  Walters  for  forty 
years'/' 

' « Well,  I  always  did  say  that  you  were 
the  most  remarkable  man  alive!  How  did 
you  ever  happen  to  know  him?" 

<4It  was  when  we  were  both  young. 
Every  spring  for  many  years  my  father 
carried  us  all  to  Newport.  The  Walters 
family  had  a  place  there.  'Raish'  and  I 
were  together  every  day  and  all  day  long 
through  many  summers." 

He  mused  smilingly  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  he  said: 

' '  He  was  a  mighty  nice  boy.  It  certainly 
is  curious — I  never  have  seen  him  since  we 
were  eighteen — never  but  once;  and  yet 
positively  I  think  of  him  oftener  than  I  do 
of  men  whom  I've  been  meeting  every  day 
for  years. " 

' '  You  have  seen  him  once  since  you  were 
grown,  did  you  say,  father?" 

"Yes,  once  when  I  was  about  twenty- 


70  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

five,"  he  answered.  But  he  did  not  seem 
inclined  to  say  more. 

When  they  were  alone  Mrs.  Lee  said  to 
her  daughter,  "  I  think  I  can  tell  you  when 
your  father  met  Colonel  Walters  again." 

"I  thought  you  could,"  answered  her 
daughter;  "that's  why  I  didn't  tease  him."  . 

'«  Of  course  I  wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  thought 
he  would  object,"  said  Mrs.  Lee;  "  but  he 
just  doesn't  care  to  speak  of  those  things 
himself.  He  told  me  long  ago  that  one 
day  in  Virginia  at  the  time  when  it  began  to 
be  plain  that  the  Confederate  forces  could 
not  hold  out,  he  found  that  an  old  friend  of 
his  was  in  command  of  the  Federal  regi 
ment  just  in  front  of  him.  He  was  wild  to 
see  him,  so  he  took  a  glass  and  went  to  an 
elevation  inside  the  lines.  By  some  chance 
the  other  man  was  looking  for  him  and  they 
saw  each  other  at  the  same  instant.  He 
said  he  saw  his  friend  throw  down  his  glass, 
swing  his  cap  around  his  head,  and  he  heard 
him  give  the  long  shrill  whistle — lOo-ee- 
eef—by  which  they  summoned  each  other 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  fl 

as  boys.  And  to  his  surprise  he  found  him 
self  doing  the  same  thing." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  girl,  "I  wonder  if 
that  was  really  a  pleasant  experience?" 

4 '  It  was  to  him.  He  said  that  all  day 
he  kept  thinking  of  his  friend's  gay  affec 
tionate  face,  and  of  how  handsome  he  looked 
in  his  fine  uniform." 

* '  It  would  have  made  me  awfully  mad!" 
said  Fairfax. 

Miss  Patty  was  absent  for  three  months. 
When  she  came  home  her  mother  and  sister 
thought  her  a  trifle  absent-minded,  and  she 
was  no  less  so  on  the  Saturday  after  her 
arrival.  On  that  day  the  Captain  came 
from  his  office  with  great  news.  Mr.  Wal 
ters  had  been  with  him  for  some  time  that 
afternoon.  He  had  been  courting  Patty  all 
winter  and  now  asked  her  father's  permis 
sion  to  address  her.  The  young  man  had 
behaved  with  great  propriety  and  candor. 
The  Captain  could  not  but  be  satisfied  with 
what  he  learned  of  his  character  and  pros 
pects.  He  had  only  stipulated  for  a  longer 


72  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

acquaintance  before  an  engagement  should 
be  entered  into,  in  case  Patty  should  feel 
inclined  to  accept  his  addresses.  Concern 
ing  this  the  young  man  had  shown  a  degree 
of  doubt  that  was  most  becoming,  but  when 
Patty  was  called  from  her  room  where  she 
had  locked  herself  it  became  evident  that 
the  two  understood  each  other  pretty  well. 
As  the  family  sat  together  some  hours  later 
the  Captain  suddenly  broke  a  silence  by 
saying,  "He  looks  just  as  his  father  did 
that  day!" 

11  Oh,  father,"  said  Fairfax,  "you  don't 
expect  us  to  believe  that  you  can  remember 
how  anybody  looked  thirty  years  ago?" 

But  Patty  rose  at  once  and  came  to  her 
father's  side.  " Thank  you,  father,"  she 
said;  "I  think  that  means  that  you  like 
him." 

The  Captain  had  early  acquired  a  compe 
tence,  and  by  the  time  his  daughters  were 
grown  he  was  a  wealthy  man.  Having  leis 
ure  and  means,  and  a  genuine  interest  in  all 
that  was  for  the  good  of  the  community,  he 


A  PART  OF  THE  NEW  SOUTH  73 

was  constantly,  in  spite  of  his  reserve  and 
modesty,  called  on  to  fill  places  of  promi 
nence.  His  absolute  integrity,  his  wide  and 
temperate  judgment  were  valued  most  highly. 
In  many  of  the  ceremonials  of  the  region,  such 
as  the  opening  of  the  great  bridge,  or  the 
dedication  of  the  monument,  he  made,  with 
his  distinguished  bearing  and  his  pale,  sad 
face,  a  most  impressive  figure.  One  day 
as  he  sat  reading,  while  Mrs.  Lee  by  his 
side  worked  at  her  embroidery,  he  put  down 
his  newspaper  with  a  sad  smile.  He  had 
been  reading  an  announcement  of  his 
daughter's  engagement,  which  included  a 
tribute  to  himself  as  a  successful  man  and  a 
public-spirited  citizen.  It  closed  with  these 
words:  "  Captain  Lee  is  a  part,  and  a  char 
acteristic  part,  of  the  New  South."  His 
eyes  took  the  look  of  one  who  recalls  with 
undying  love  a  dead  and  buried  past. 

His  wife  rose  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  She  had  it  in  her  mind  to  catch 
his  thought  and  then  to  lead  him  out  of  it. 
"I  wonder,"  said  she,  "if  you  are  remem- 


74  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

bering  that  this  week  is  the  anniversary  of 
the  fall  of  Richmond?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  startled,  bewildered 
eyes.  She  made  the  quick  effort  of  a  wife 
to  bring  him  to  a  happier  mood. 

"We  have  lived  a  great  deal  since  then, 
have  we  not?" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  brow;  the  look  of 
distress  flamed  up  into  angry  pain. 

"No,  no!"  he  said.  "It  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  been  dead  ever  since  then." 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS 


A   CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS 
I 

AT  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  a  train 
slackened  and  stopped  at  the  little  sta 
tion.  It  was  summer  still,  and  the  atmos 
phere  had  in  it  the  memory  of  a  hot  day 
just  passed,  and  the  promise  of  one  to  come. 
The  freight  agent  came  out  of  his  little 
office  and  stood  by  the  baggage  car.  He 
was  pale  and  sleepy-looking,  but  he  smiled 
with  the  good  humor  of  a  man  who  finds 
something  rather  amusing  in  his  own  over 
worked  condition.  The  blinds  were  down 
in  the  Pullman  car  and  only  one  passenger 
appeared  at  the  end  where  the  white-coated 
porter  had  placed  his  step.  He  put  her  bags 
into  her  hands  and  sprang  back  on  to  the 
car. 

The  young  lady  looked  up  and  down  the 
cindery  platform,  and  across  the  little  grass- 
77 


78  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

plat  and  its  gay  beds  of  foliage  plants,  as  if 
in  expectation  of  someone  to  meet  her. 
Then  she  walked  to  the  baggageman,  who 
had  put  her  trunk  on  .a  hand  truck  and  was 
about  to  wheel  it  into  the  depot. 

''Do  you  know  Mr.  Amos  Peabody?"  she 
asked.  ' '  Has  he  -been  here  this  morning?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  I  have  known  Mr. 
Peabody  and  Miss  Dezzie  ever  since  I  was 
a  little  boy.  But  they  ain't  been  here  this 
morning.  They  went  up  to  Chicago  yes 
terday  afternoon.  They  laid  off  to  do  some 
trading,  I  guess." 

The  girl  for  an  instant  seemed  dismayed. 
"When  will  they  return?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  exactly  know,  but  I  heard  her 
telling  somebody  she  must  get  right  back, 
—some  of  her  folks  was  coming.  Now,  I 
reckon — " 

The  young  lady  did  not  prolong  the  con 
versation.  "Thank  you,"  said  she;  "Iwill 
send  for  the  trunk." 

The  man  followed  her  respectfully  to  the 
edge  of  the  platform.  "The  house  is 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  79 

straight  down  the  street.  It's  the  old- 
fashioned  red  brick  with  a  big  orchard  in 
front.  It's  been  here  since  the  Indians, 
'most.  Row  of  mill  hands'  cottages  built 
up  pretty  close  to  the  far  side  of  the  lot." 

As  the  young  girl  walked  down  the  dewy 
street  the  station  agent  looked  after  her 
with  interest.  He  knew  all  about  her;  he 
knew  that  Mr.  Peabody  and  his  maiden 
sister,  Miss  Dezzie,  had  several  years  before 
adopted  a  little  orphan  niece,  and  that  they 
had  kept  her  at  school  in  Vermont,  where 
every  year  they  spent  the  summer,  and  that 
now,  having  been  graduated,  she  was  com 
ing  to  Indiana  to  live  with  them. 

44 1  don't  wonder  the  old  folks  are  so  soft 
about  her,"  he  said.  "  She's  a  hummer  for 
looks. " 

The  town  through  which  Elinor  Fletcher 
walked  was  just  beginning  to  awaken.  It 
was  a  pretty,  ready-made  town  grouped 
around  the  works  that  made  the  heart  of  it. 
The  same  architect  had  planned  it  all. 
Whether  one  looked  at  the  great  mills  them- 


86  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

selves,  or  at  the  long  rows  of  operatives* 
houses,  or  at  the  library  or  the  theater  or 
the  showy  residences  of  the  proprietors,  half 
hidden  in  trees,  with  stretches  of  lawn,  the 
same  features  were  evident;  the  same  red 
brick,  the  same  deep  set  windows,  the  same 
olive  shingles,  the  same  green  grass,  close- 
cut  and  water-drenched,  and  the  same  beds 
of  red  geraniums  all  in  full  bloom.  The 
town  looked  as  if  it  had  been  put  down  all 
at  once.  Only  here  and  there,  through  its 
spick  and  span  woof,  there  protruded  a 
house  of  an  older  time,  a  residence  like  the 
Peabody's,  which  held  in  its  aspect  a  mem 
ory  of  the  period  before  the  great  factories 
had  been  dreamed  of, — a  time,  still  to  be 
boasted  of,  when  Greenfield  had  a  Pres 
byterian  and  a  Methodist  and  a  Campbellite 
church  while  Chicago  was  only  a  swamp. 

The  girl  walked  up  the  long  path,  between 
rows  of  blooming  perennial  phlox  and  clus 
ters  of  gladioli,  to  the  door  of  her  uncle's 
house.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  she  stopped. 
The  front  porch  was  dusty,  and  some  wind- 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  81 

blown  leaves  and  twigs  lay  about  it.  In 
the  door-recess  were  two  newspapers,  rolled 
and  still  keeping  the  boomerang  shape  in 
which  they  had  been  thrown.  Under  the 
door  was  tucked  a  yellow  envelope  which 
the  girl  recognized  as  possibly  containing 
the  telegram  she  had  sent  in  notification. 
She  looked  at  the  closed  door  in  thoughtful 
consideration  of  what  was  to  be  done. 

Across  the  garden  at  one  side  was  the  last 
of  the  row  of  cottages.  Evidently  its  in 
mates  were  stirring,  for  smoke  rose  from 
the  chimney.  Some  children,  who  had  ap 
parently  with  one  bound  left  their  beds  and 
the  house,  stood  around  the  back  door. 
They  stared  awhile  and  then  ran  into  the 
house.  A  woman  came  back  with  them; 
she  also  stared,  adjusted  the  neck  of  her 
gown  and  came  to  the  dividing  fence.  Elinor 
went  toward  her  with  an  inquiry. 

'*  Their  hired  girl  was  over  here  night  be 
fore  last,"  the  woman  responded,  "and  she 
said  they  didn't  look  for  you  till  to-morrow; 
6 


82  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

and  so  when  they  went  off  she  was  going  out 
to  see  her  folks  in  the  country. " 

"It  is  quite  my  fault,"  said  Miss  Elinor. 
' '  I  found  I  could  get  through  sooner.  Have 
you  any  idea  when  they  will  come  home?" 

' '  Law,  yes !  They're  going  to  get  here  to 
night  sure.  The  train  gets  in  about  nine — 
that  is,  if  it  ain't  late.  You  know,"  said 
she,  with  a  certain  air,  "that  this  is  Labor 
Day." 

"Is  there  any  hotel  near?"  asked  the 
young  woman. 

"They  ain't  none  in  town,  none  nearer 
than  New  Greenfield — that's  three  miles  up 
the  road." 

Miss  Elinor  turned  with  a  smile.  "Well, 
then,  Mrs. — oh,  Mrs.  Montague,  thank  you! 
I  guess  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  give  me  some 
of  your  coffee  and  let  me  spend  -the  day 
with  you." 

Mrs.  Montague  flushed  with  pleasure. 
"That's  right.  I'll  take  good  care  of  you. 
Montague's  gone  off  already  to  get  the 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  83 

transparencies  for  the  procession,  and  you 
and  me'll  have  breakfast  right  away." 

The  two  went  into  the  kitchen.  It  was 
a  dreary,  disorderly  place.  A  few  large 
goods  boxes  stood  about;  they  had  not  been 
unpacked,  but  part  of  their  contents  had 
been  dragged  out,  and  the  rest  were  spill 
ing  over  the  top.  "We  have  been  here 
four  months,"  said  Mrs.  Montague,  "but  I 
don't  feel  really  settled  so  as  to  have  any 
ambition  to  get  out  my  things.  We  come 
here  from  Pullman,  and  he's  wanting  to  go 
on  to  Alton,  to  the  wagon-works  there.  If 
we  can  sell  our  things  and  get  the  money  I 
reckon  we'll  get  off  this  week." 

The  woman  looked  tired.  Her  figure  was 
flat  and  bent.  She  spoke  in  a  sharp,  quer 
ulous  voice,  not  because  she  was  bad  tem 
pered,  but  because  that  tone  might  claim 
attention  when  a  milder  one  would  not 
avail. 

The  young  lady  took  her  cup  of  coffee 
and  slice  of  bread  in  her  hands  and  sat  down 
on  the  steps  behind  the  kitchen  door,  She 


84  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

talked  pleasantly  with  Mrs.  Montague  and 
tried  to  make  friends  with  the  children. 
When  her  breakfast  was  done  she  coaxed 
them  to  let  her  wash  their  faces,  and  bribed 
the  little  one  to  have  her  hair  curled. 

Within  Mrs.  Montague  was  packing  up 
the  basket  of  dinner  that  was  to  be  taken 
to  the  Labor-Day  picnic.  She  explained 
the  program  as  she  worked;  all  the  unions 
were  to  march  through  town  in  a  big 
procession  —  two  bands  —  at  the  grounds 
there  were  to  be  speeches,  everybody  was 
going,  and,  best  of  all,  there  would  be 
grand  fireworks. 

The  whole  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Montague's 
talk  was  quite  new  to  Elinor  and  most  inter 
esting.  The  things  of  which  she  spoke  and 
her  easy  confidence  in  her  own  claim  to  be 
as  good  as  anybody  were,  the  girl  thought, 
a  manifestation  of  the  free  Western  life, 
the  real  American  life,  something  quite  dif 
ferent  from  anything  possible  in  New  Eng 
land — which,  after  all,  was  still  England 
and  no  longer  "New,"  Before  many  min- 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  85 

utes  had  passed,  Mrs.  Montague,  with  the 
appearance  of  regarding  the  picnic  as  an 
entertainment  of  her  own,  asked  Elinor  to 
accompany  her,  and  pressed  the  invitation 
with  hospitable  importunity.  After  a  little 
hesitancy  the  young  lady  consented.  As 
they  went  on  their  way  she  had  an  amused 
consciousness  of  the  emotion  the  Benning- 
ton  Institute  would  experience  at  the  sight 
of  her  on  her  way  to  a  public  picnic,  leading 
two  white-haired  children  and  chaperoned 
by  Mrs.  Montague  with  her  basket  of  lunch. 
At  the  grounds  they  were  joined,  when 
the  procession  disbanded,  by  Montague, 
who  looked  at  Miss  Fletcher  with  some 
timidity  and  then  ignored  her  altogether. 
The  crowd  grew  larger  every  minute;  fam 
ilies  greeted  each  other  and  pushed  on. 
Babies  cried;  women  called.  Little  groups 
formed  around  peddlers  and  venders,  and 
those  who  were  anxious  to  get  near  these 
attractions  no  sooner  got  within  hearing 
than  they  were  equally  anxious  to  get  away. 
At  intervals  great  wagons  loaded  with  beer 


86  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

kegs  pushed  through  the  crowd.  "Here, 
Mag!  Here,  Miss!"  cried  Montague,  "let's 
get  up  to  the  speaking  place." 

They  held  close  together;  Montague  first, 
then  his  wife,  basket-laden,  hot  and  breath 
less,  then  Elinor  with  the  two  babies. 
Aided  by  the  man's  elbows  they  got  to  the 
center  of  the  space  where  some  boards  put 
across  trestles  made  rude  seats. 

By  the  time  they  found  their  places  the 
girl  was  very  uncomfortable;  the  crowding 
offended  her,  the  noise  was  bewildering. 
But  as  they  sat  in  the  comparative  ease  of 
their  position  she  recovered  her  spirits. 
She  said  to  herself  that  a  little  inconven 
ience  was  nothing,  and  anyway  it  would  be 
over  in  a  few  hours. 

She  looked  about  her  with  renewed  in 
terest  at  the  audience  that  was  assembling. 
There  were  family  parties  like  the  Mon 
tagues  and  herself  who  pushed  about  look 
ing  in  vain  for  seats  near  the  front.  But 
there  were  others  who  were  more  signifi 
cant;  these  were  the  older  workingmen  who 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  87 

had  come  early  to  pre-empt  good  places, 
and  now  waited  in  patient  silence  for  the 
speaking  to  begin.  She  saw  their  bent 
backs,  and  their  nervous,  tired,  honest  faces. 
She  compared  their  hard  mutilated  hands 
with  her  own,  sensitive  and  daintily  kept. 
There  is  no  entailment  of  crushed  fingers 
and  swollen  joints.  At  birth  the  hands  of 
all  children  are  alike.  Did  God  mean  that 
later  they  should  come  to  such  difference? 

The  air  cooled  as  they  waited;  little 
breezes  played  about.  The  crowd  found 
places  on  benches,  and  beyond  their  limit 
on  the  grass.  The  people  grew  quiet,  the 
faces  of  the  younger  men,  which  had  seemed 
coarse  or  silly  when  in  action,  now  relaxed 
into  apathy  or  into  a  look  of  timid  hope 
that  was  more  pitiful  than  despair. 

The  Chairman  and  the  chief  officers  of 
the  Union  took  their  places  on  a  stand  made 
of  rough  lumber  decorated  with  flags  and 
green  branches.  Elinor  had  heard  of  labor 
agitators,  of  "  loud-mouthed,  beer-drinking 
demagogues. "  She  looked  at  the  men  on 


88  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

the  stand;  they  were  pale,  thin  and  sickly. 
One  of  them  had  the  deep-set,  rapt  aspect 
of  a  fanatic,  and  the  eyes  of  another  shifted 
nervously  from  side  to  side;  but  they  were 
all  sad.  The  girl  who  sat  in  the  midst  of 
this  perceived  that  she  had  never  before 
thought  of  a  great  concourse  which,  whether 
it  rejoiced,  protested  or  denounced,  had 
not  a  hope  and  courage  that  their  gather 
ing  seemed  to  lack. 

The  meeting  was  opened;  some  reports 
were  read.  There  was  trouble  in  New  Jer 
sey,  and  a  lockout  at  St.  Louis;  in  local 
affairs  there  was  nothing  better,  nor  was 
there  anything  new  to  be  complained  of. 
There  was  nothing  in  these  reports  to  en 
courage  and  nothing  to  stimulate.  The 
meeting  sat  apathetic  and  dumb. 

By  and  by  a  whisper  passed  about,  ' « Dick 
Morgan  comes  next."  As  Elinor  listened 
to  the  Chairman's  last  statement  she  got, 
in  Mrs.  Montague's  hoarse  undertones,  some 
information  about  him.  "He's  great!  He 
belongs  around  here  and  they  all  think 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  89 

they's  nobody  like  him;  grew  up  in  the 
shops,  but  he's  a  delegate  now."  A  young 
man  came  forward  and  began  to  speak 
quietly.  The  older  men  settled  themselves 
to  listen,  a  woman  near  Elinor  lifted  her 
painted  face  from  the  shoulder  of  the  man 
who  sat  beside  her,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  speaker  with  the  same  absorbing  atten 
tion  that  showed  in  the  face  of  her  lover. 

At  first  Elinor  resented  the  man's  appear 
ance,  his  clear  skin,  his  strong,  easy  youth. 
"Of  course  they  like  him,  poor  things! 
They  think  (and  no  doubt  he  agrees  with 
them)  that  it's  very  fine  for  them  to  have  a 
representative  who  looks  like  that."  She 
thought  that  he  was  out  of  place,  an  intru 
sion.  If  the  cause  of  the  laboring  man  had 
any  force,  it  lay  in  austerity,  in  simplicity. 
This  man's  good  looks  made  it,  so  she 
thought,  theatrical.  What  influence  he 
had  he  had  got  in  the  cheapest  and  poorest 
way. 

But  as  the  speaker  proceeded  his  manner 
grew  more  forcible.  He  looked  older  and 


90  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

sterner.  Whatever  beauty  of  feature  she 
might  have  observed  passed  from  notice 
when  his  face  was  worked  upon  by  the 
earnestness  of  his  thought.  His  aspect, 
growing  less  personal,  seemed  to  her  more 
and  more  the  expression  of  uncolored  intel 
lect,  as  if  he  were  turning  on  the  state  of 
things  the  light  of  an  unbiased  intelligence. 
Each  sentence  was  plain  and  direct,  mean 
ing  apparently  no  more  nor  less  than  its 
words;  but  as  Elinor  came  under  his  influ 
ence  she  felt  that  his  thought  went  ahead 
of  his  word — the  suggestiveness  of  his 
presence  so  outran  his  utterance  that  he  left 
with  the  hearer  a  sense  of  his  moderation 
rather  than  his  violence.  His  language  had 
been  commonplace,  and  his  sentences  even 
halting;  now  the  words  poured  out  of  his 
mouth  with  what  seemed  to  the  girl  an  in 
comparable  felicity,  originality,  exactness. 
« Great  heavens, "  she  thought,  "the  things 
I  have  studied  are  dead;  this  is  alive." 

The  audience  at  first  clapped  and  shouted 
in  approval,  but  as  Morgan  proceeded  they 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  91 

kept  still  as  if  for  fear  of  losing  something. 
He  spoke  of  their  hardships,  but  more  of 
the  wrongs  of  others;  he  spoke  of  faith,  of 
love,  of  manly  truth  and  womanly  courage. 
And  then  he  spoke  of  their  rights.      "Let 
no  man  deceive  himself,"  he  said.      "There 
are  more  rights  than  yours  or  mine.     We 
must  try  to  see  farther  than  ourselves,  to 
be  as  afraid  of  being  wrong  as  we  are  of 
being  cowardly.    It  is  easy  to  curse  the  order 
of  things.      It  is  wrong,  but  it  went  wrong 
centuries  ago.     We  must  try  to  get  back  to 
the  loving,  the  beautiful  order  of   nature, 
the  order  that  is  free  from  fear,  from  tyranny, 
from  selfishness.    God's  creatures  never  were 
meant  to  hate  each  other.     They  would  not, 
if  they  had  half  a  chance  at  any  other  way. 
But  as  it  is,   a   man   must  be   greedy;  he 
must  fight  for  his  life.      If  he  turns  aside  to 
help  another,    he    and  those   he    loves  go 
to  the  wall.      Have  we  been  endowed  with 
a  hundred  faculties,  a  hundred  aspirations 
for  what   is  beautiful   and  gentle,   to  give 
them  all  up,   to  spend  ourselves  eternally 


92  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

in  belittling  strife?  We  are  all  of  the  same 
flesh — if  it  were  only  class  against  class, 
that  would  be  easier.  If  it  were  Right 
against  Wrong,  that  would  be  easier.  But 
it  is  not  Right  against  Wrong.  It  is  right 
against  right;  and  because  we  have  known 
poverty  and  misery,  it  is  to  us,  rather  than 
to  the  rich  and  fortunate,  that  God  will 
give  the  wisdom  and  courage  to  work  for 
a  better  day — a  millenium  of  peace  and 
love." 

His  spirit  seemed  to  surge  through  the 
crowd  as  he  continued.  The  men's  faces 
grew  pale  and  flushed  under  the  eyes. 
Elinor's  last  critical  feeling  melted  away. 
She  yielded  to  the  emotion  of  the  moment. 
There  seemed  to  her  no  possible  life  so 
glorious  as  the  one  given  to  the  help  of 
humanity;  nothing,  she  thought,  could  be 
so  sweet,  so  satisfying,  as  to  put  aside  every 
thought  of  self  as  a  joyous  sacrifice  to  this 
one  purpose.  "Oh,  my  friends, "  said  the 
speaker,  '  *  do  not  doubt  that  you  are  equal 
to  whatever  may  come.  There  is  a  strength 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  93 

in  the  heart  of  every  man  of  which  he  has 
never  dreamed.  There  is  a  force  on  which 
he  has  never  drawn.  There  is  a  will  which 
rises  strong  and  refreshed  at  the  chance  of 
loss  and  danger.  We  are  in  a  losing  fight — 
what  of  that?  The  struggle  is  almost  hope 
less — does  that  scare  any  man?  I  tell  you 
there  is  that  in  you  that  will  welcome  sac 
rifice,  poverty,  pain  and  defeat,  as  a  man 
puts  out  his  arms  to  his  sweetheart,  grace 
ful  and  beloved.  To  know  this — and  it's 
true — to  feel  it,  if  only  once,  lifts  a  man 
forever,  and  lets  him  say  through  all  time 
and  eternity:  I  was  poor,  I  was  humble,  I 
was  despised.  But  in  my  hour  I  chose — 
and  chose  greatly — and  now  I  stand  above 
all  that  any  wealth  or  power  can  give,  with 
those  who  for  love  and  for  right  counted  all 
else  as  nothing.  It  is  a  chance  for  which 
we  thank  God." 

"This,"  thought  Elinor,  "is  the  glorious 
ministry;  this  is  the  spirit  of  the  saints  and 
martyrs.  With  such  inspiration  I  could 
dare  anything,  give  up  everything." 


94  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

When  the  speaking  was  over  the  audi 
ence  scattered  aimlessly  about.  There  was 
nothing  to  do.  Everybody  had  been  an 
ticipating  a  very  delightful  time,  and  was 
so  abstracted  in  looking  for  it  that  no  one 
could  settle  down  to  talk  with  everyday 
friends. 

Only  a  few  had  brought  luncheon  with 
them.  The  others  purchased  thick  sand 
wiches  and  balls  of  popcorn  wrapped  in  gay 
colored  paper.  Everybody  was  thirsty; 
but  there  was  no  water  to  be  had,  and  men 
clustered  about  beer  stands,  or  went  back 
from  them  to  their  friends  with  a  half-dozen 
mugs  of  beer  strung  on  the  fingers  of  one 
hand.  As  Elinor  moved  away  with  her 
companions,  Dick  Morgan's  voice  was  ring 
ing  in  her  ears.  When  she  saw  him  through 
the  crowd  the  blood  came  to  her  face.  She 
wanted  to  speak  to  him,  she  wanted  to  tell 
him  that  she  knew — that  she  understood. 

She  could  not  eat  the  luncheon,  nor  drink 
the  mawkish  lemonade  that  Montague 
brought  them,  The  crowd  had  grown 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  95 

noisier.  Gayly  dressed  women  drove  up  in 
shabby  open  carriages,  and,  alighting, 
walked  in  twos  and  threes  through  the 
grounds,  Sometimes  a  man  rougher  and 
more  nearly  drunk  than  the  others  joined 
such  a  one  and  bought  beer  and  candy  for 
her  with  noisy  extravagance.  Elinor  tried 
to  amuse  the  children;  she  told  them  little 
stories,  and  made  a  doll  out  of  her  hand 
kerchief;  but  she  was  conscious  that  she 
was  stared  at,  although  her  modesty  kept 
her  from  guessing  what  a  marked  object  she 
was  with  her  delicate  face  and  the  fashion 
able  plainness  of  her  traveling  dress. 

Over  her  shoulder  she  heard  Morgan's 
voice  addressed  to  Mrs.  Montague.  She 
looked  up  and  the  two  were  introduced,  but 
he  continued  to  talk  to  the  older  woman. 
The  latter  began  to  fidget — she  had  left  her 
umbrella  at  one  of  the  stands.  Morgan 
offered  to  go  for  it,  but  she  could  not 
describe  the  place.  Elinor  rose  at  once 
and  proposed  that  they  should  go  together, 
but  Mrs.  Montague  objected,  "No,  I  don't 


96  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

want  to  lose  this  place;  it'll  be  right  in  the 
middle  when  the  dancing  begins.  You  and 
Mr.  Morgan  stay  and  keep  it  for  me.  I'll 
come  right  back." 

The  two  were  left  alone.  Elinor  spoke 
first :  ' ' I  heard  your  speech. "  "I  know  it, " 
he  answered;  "I  saw  you.  At  first  I  was 
afraid  I  could  not  please  you;  later — " 

" Later  you  saw  that  I  was  pleased," 
she  said. 

He  laughed  a  boyish,  half  embarrassed 
laugh;  then  he  grew  serious.  "  Later  I  did 
not  care — No,  I  don't  mean  that;  I  forgot 
whether  I  cared  or  not." 

"I  understand;  you  must  not  care." 

' '  Oh,  I  might  care,  but  I  would  know  that 
that  was  not  the  thing  for  me  to  think  of." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  something,"  she 
said,  hesitatingly.  "I  felt  what  you  said 
very  deeply — I  had  not  thought  of  those 
things  before." 

He  looked  at  her.    "Do  you  really  care?" 

She  blushed  a  little,  < '  Indeed  I  do.  You 
must  believe  that!" 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  97 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  believe  it,"  he  an 
swered. 

Suddenly  the  two  became  conscious  that 
there  was  noise  and  movement  all  around 
them.  Some  musicians  were  playing  near 
by.  "Partners  for  the  Matrimonial  Quad 
rille!"  someone  had  shouted.  They  saw 
that  a  set  had  formed  of  which  they  were 
the  last  couple.  The  girl  looked  about; 
Mrs.  Montague  was  not  to  be  seen.  Every 
where  were  coarse,  suspicious-looking  faces. 
Men  and  women  were  calling  on  them  to 
get  up  and  dance.  She  turned  to  Morgan 
with  a  frightened  appeal.  "Oh,  I  can't. 
Let  me  get  away  from  here!" 

A  woman's  sneering  voice  rang  out.  She 
was  a  dark  and  glowing  creature  with  hate 
in  her  black  eyes,  and  wickedness  on  her 
painted  lips.  "  Oh,  she  won't  dance — she's 
too  good  for  us.  Dick  wouldn't  let  her 
dance  with  us." 

Morgan  gave  one  quick  glance  at  the 
three  men  who,  with  their  partners,  waited. 
"It's  the  McCoy  gang!"  he  groaned.  He 
7 


98  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

spoke  to  the  girl  gently.  ' '  Fd  like  to  break 
the  heads  of  some  of  these  fellows,  but  a 
fight  would  only  draw  a  crowd  around  you. 
Could  you  go  through  this?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  then  at  the  others; 
her  color  came  back  and  her  eyes  flashed. 
"Certainly  I  can,"  she  said. 

She  went  through  the  dance  as  coolly  as  if 
it  had  been  a  calisthenic  exercise  in  a  school 
gymnasium.  The  men  showed  some  signs 
of  growing  respect,  but  the  women  looked 
at  her  with  only  more  cruelty  as  they  ob 
served  the  change  in  the  demeanor  of  their 
companions. 

They  were  in  the  last  figure,  and  Elinor 
found  herself  at  Morgan's  side  in  a  line  of 
couples  who  were  moving  toward  a  man 
standing  on  a  table.  She  heard  the  guf 
faws  of  the  men,  and  the  shrill  forced 
laughter  of  women  over-merry  at  a  coarse 
joke.  Then  she  saw  that  each  couple 
paused  a  moment  before  the  man  on  the 
table,  who  went  through  some  mummery  to 
which  they  responded,  and  then  broke 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  99 

away  to  join  the  crowd.  Morgan  saw  it 
also;  his  face  grew  black.  "Oh,  what  is 
this?"  asked  Elinor.  "It's  the  infernal 
nonsense  they  call  the  matrimonial  quad 
rille.  Don't  look,  don't  speak;  it  can't  last 
but  a  minute  longer,  and  then  I'll  get  you 
out  of  this  crowd  at  once." 

The  next  moment  they  stood  before  the 
mock  minister.  She  heard  his  drunken 
voice  saying,  "I  pronounce  you  man  and 
wife."  Then  she  felt  herself  hurried 
through  the  crowd.  Mrs.  Montague  ap 
peared  from  blurred  space,  and  Morgan 
spoke  to  her.  "Please  keep  close  by  Miss 
Fletcher — you'd  better  take  her  home!" 

The  woman  was  tired  and  peevish.  *  *  I 
don't  see  what  Morgan's  jawing  me  about," 
she  said  to  his  retreating  back.  "  I've  lost 
my  umbrella,  and  hes  run  off,  goodness 
knows  where,  and  the  young  ones  are  act 
ing  like  the  Old  Scratch,  and  I  ain't  had  a 
bit  of  pleasure  yet,  and  it's  most  night 
now." 

The  children  dragged  at  their  mother's 


100  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

skirts.  "Let  me  take  them  home,  Mrs. 
Montague,"  begged  Elinor.  "I  am  sure  I 
can  find  the  way.  We  are  all  so  tired." 

Mrs.  Montague  finally  agreed  to  this. 
4 'The  truth  is,"  said  she,  "I  never  seen 
any  fireworks  figure  pieces,  and  somehow  I 
just  can't  bear  to  leave  'em.  I  reckon  the 
children  '11  go  to  sleep  and  your  aunt  '11  be 
there  before  long,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  yes;  indeed  it's  quite  right,"  urged 
the  girl.  She  got  out  of  the  grounds  and 
stood  waiting  for  a  car.  She  held  in  her 
arms  the  two-year-old  baby,  and  the  four- 
year-old  child  began  to  cry  to  be  carried, 
too.  She  was  trying  to  soothe  it  when 
Dick  Morgan  took  the  little  one  from  her, 
and  lifted  the  other  one  to  his  arm. 

In  the  five-mile  ride  they  hardly  spoke; 
and  they  walked  in  the  bright  moonlight 
down  the  street  to  the  house  with  the  staid 
manner  of  old  people.  "  Give  me  the  key, 
please,"  he  said.  "I  never  once  thought 
of  that!"  she  gasped. 

They  looked  at  each  other  blankly;  each 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  IOI 

saw  what  the  other  felt.  "  I  can  sit  here 
on  the  steps  till  my  aunt  comes,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I'll  go."  But  as  he  spoke  a 
wagon  went  by  full  of  men  singing  and 
swearing.  "I'll  not  leave  you  here  alone," 
he  said. 

They  sat  together  on  the  little  porch  in 
front  of  the  house.  Elinor  held  the  baby 
in  her  arms;  the  older  child  leaned  against 
Morgan's  shoulder.  The  moonlight  showed 
them  each  other  as  plainly  as  daylight  could 
have  done,  but  it  added  to  the  unreality  of 
the  situation.  The  girl  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  picked  up  out  of  her  New  England  life 
and  dropped  down  on  another  planet,  and 
that  on  it  were  but  two  persons,  herself  and 
Morgan.  She  found  herself  talking  more 
freely  than  she  had  ever  done  of  what 
seemed  to  her  the  true  ideals  of  life.  He 
responded  with  instant  comprehension  of 
the  things  she  tried  to  say.  All  they  said 
was  abstract  (or  they  believed  it  to  be  so), 
and  full  of  the  high  purity  of  intense  youth. 
If  there  came  to  him  a  momentary  con- 


102  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

sciousness  of  her  beauty  and  sympathy  it 
was  not  a  feeling  that  he  looked  for  or  en 
couraged. 

The  train  was  late,  and,  as  the  time  went 
on,  their  conversation  grew  less  impersonal. 
The  young  man  spoke  of  his  childhood:  "I 
was  very  happy,"  he  said,  ' 'although  my 
mother  was  dead,  and  my  father,  who 
worked  in  the  shops,  was  not  always  kind. 
I  had  a  friend,  a  boy  of  my  own  age,  with 
whom  I  spent  much  of  my  time.  We  knew 
every  foot  of  the  country  for  miles  around 
here,  and,  except  the  months  when  we  went 
to  the  village  school,  we  lived  out  of  doors. 
It  was  a  happy  time.  Then,  of  course,  when 
I  was  old  enough  I  went  into  the  shops. 
Since  then  it  seems  to  me  I  have  always 
been  alone." 

"  But  what  has  become  of  your  friend?" 
The  young  man  answered  shortly,  "Oh, 
I  don't  see  him  often  now;  we  have  not 
much  in  common."  He  added,  "I suppose 
a  man  really  has  nothing  but  himself  in  the 
whole  universe." 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  103 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "himself,  and  the  hope 
of  getting  what  he  is  working  for — if  he 
knows  what  that  is." 

The  young  man  looked  past  her  at  the 
sapphire  sky. 

"I  don't  hope  for  success;  I  don't  expect 
anything  of  the  sort.  But  there  is  one 
thing  I  do  want — that  is,  to  believe  in  my 
self — to  believe  that  I  mean  to  give  my  life 
to  my  own  people.  If  I  can  only  feel  that 
I'm  true  to  that — " 

"/believe  in  you,"  she  said;  "in  your 
goodness  and  your  faithfulness;  — yes,  and 
in  the  end  there  must  be  success.  The 
down-trodden  shall  be  raised  up.  God  will 
not  forget  his  creatures." 

She  was  intense  and  exalted;  the  young 
man  thought  that  as  she  sat  there  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms  she  was  like  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  the  worship  of  whom  was  his  inherit 
ance.  All  hope  and  sorrow  were  in  her 
eyes. 

The  baby  shivered.  Morgan  rose,  took 
off  his  coat  and,  leaning  over  the  two, 


104  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

wrapped  it  around  the  little  one.  It  was 
eleven  o'clock.  Far  down  the  street  the 
lights  showed  that  the  train  was  in. 

''Your  uncle  and  aunt  will  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes,"  he  said.  "I  will  stay  with 
the  babies." 

They  both  rose.  "I  am  going  away  in 
the  morning  and  I  may  not  come  back  for  a 
long  time,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  She 
spoke  with  sudden  impulse: 

"Will  you  always  believe  that  I  am 
the  same — your  friend,  as  long  as  I  live?" 

A  man  and  woman  walking  by  stopped 
and  looked  in  curiously.  It  was  the  McCoy 
woman.  She  raised  her  voice: 

"Oh,  it's  Dick  Morgan  and  his  girl,  hid 
ing  in  the  dark." 

The  two  scarcely  heard.  In  a  moment 
the  train  omnibus  came  rumbling  up  the 
street.  There  was  an  instantaneous  change 
in  the  relation  of  the  shadows  on  the  porch 
and  then  Elinor  Fletcher  was  flying  through 
the  yard  to  the  door  of  her  uncle's  house. 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  105 

II 

It  was  natural  that  Elinor  should  sleep 
late  next  morning,  and  equally  natural  that 
her  elders  should  wake  early  to  enjoy  the 
consciousness  that  they  at  last  had  her 
under  their  own  roof.  Miss  Dezzie  herself 
prepared  the  breakfast,  and  she  and  Amos 
tiptoed  around  the  kitchen  and  talked  in 
whispers  lest  they  should  awaken  the  tired 
girl. 

* « Poor  child, "  sighed  Miss  Dezzie,  ' '  she 
just  looked  all  used  up  last  night.  Now, 
brother  Amos,  when  she  does  come  down, 
don't  go  to  bothering  her  asking  her  about 
her  trip — there's  nothing  more  exhausting 
to  a  person  than  that  sort  of  talk." 

"  I  don't  want  to!"  cried  Uncle  Amos 
with  warmth,  « '  I  feel  bad  enough  already 
to  think  of  her  getting  in  on  the  six  o'clock 
train,  four  hours  before  us — as  she  must  'a 
done,  and  nobody  to  meet  her.  You  noticed, 
sister  Dezzie,  I  shut  you  up  pretty  sharp 
last  night  when  you  began  asking  her  about 


106  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

it.      You    could  see  that  she  could  hardly 
speak." 

"Well,  well,"  sighed  Miss  Dezzie,  "I 
only  hope  she  ain't  sick.  She  doesn't  look 
like  she  did  last  summer,  Amos.  She's 
real  peaked  and  thin." 

"Now,  Dezzie,  do  hush,"  cried  Amos. 
"If  you  had  your  own  way  you'd  worry 
that  child  into  the  grave  by  forever  thinking 
she's  sick.  She's  just  as  well  and  strong 
as  a  young  pine  tree,  and  you  know  it.  As 
to  her  being  thin — well,  I  never  fancied 
fat  girls  much." 

"You  never  fancied  any  girl,"  said  Miss 
Dezzie,  with  piercing  sarcasm.  ' '  You 
think  whatever  Elinor  is  is  all  right  just 
because  it's  she — and  that  reminds  me, 
Amos;  I  don't  want  you  should  be  so  fool 
ish  about  her  looks.  Folks  will  laugh  at 
you.  Of  course  she's  a  nice-looking  girl, 
but  other  folks  may,  for  all  we  know, 
think  their  girls  are  just  as  pretty." 

"It  ain't  likely,"  said  Amos.  Miss  Dez 
zie  mused  for  a  while.  ' '  Her  mother  be- 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  107 

gan  to  get  thin  at  just  her  age,"  she  said, 
anxiously. 

Amos  vanished  from  the  breakfast  table. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  came  back.  "I  don't 
want  to  scare  you,  sister,  but  I've  been  list 
ening  at  her  door,  and  I  can't  hear  breath 
ing,"  he  faltered. 

"Of  course  you  couldn't  hear  her 
breathe,"  said  Miss  Dezzie.  "She  never 
was  one  to  snore."  She  gave  him  a  kindly 
push  into  his  chair.  * '  Now  you  finish  your 
breakfast." 

The  breakfast  being  over,  Miss  Dezzie 
washed  the  breakfast  things  while  Amos  at 
tended  to  the  canary  birds.  Then  the  two 
repaired  to  the  sitting-room  (a  pleasant, 
sunny  room  filled  with  a  blending  of  Ver 
mont  comfort  and  Indiana  liberality),  where 
Amos  read  aloud  a  chapter  from  the  Bible. 
"Did  you  notice  Elinor  had  on  one  of 
those  new-style  cut  skirts  last  night?"  asked 
Miss  Dezzie,  as  she  settled  herself  to  her  knit 
ting.  "It's  the  first  I've  seen  except  that 
Chicago  girl's  who  was  at  the  Gilroys' — 


v 


108  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

and  that  didn't  look  anything  more  like  El 
inor's!" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  noticed  it  specially," 
said  Amos.  "  But  it  seemed  to  become  her 
real  well." 

The  hired  girl  appeared.  She  was  late. 
"I  stopped  to  see  them  Montagues,"  she 
said,  "but  they've  gone;  left  this  morn 
ing — poor  tramps." 

"Of  course,"  said  Amos,  "Elinor  will 
want  to  stay  mostly  with  us  for  a  year  or 
two  till  she  gets  to  feeling  real  well  ac 
quainted,  but  we  must  remember  that  we're 
old,  and  young  folks  like  company.  Have 
you  thought  of  that,  sister?" 

"A  year  or  two,"  sniffed  Miss  Dezzie. 
"  Why,  brother,  I  calculate  she'll  know  the 
most  of  the  young  folks  'round  here  in  a 
couple  of  months.  We  are  all  asked  down 
to  Martha  Gilroy's  to  tea,  Sunday." 

" That's  good!  It's  just  like  Martha  not 
to  wait.  They're  good  friends  year  in  and 
out.  It  ain't  Chauncey  Gilroy's  fault  if  he 
started  a  factory  and  got  rich  while  I  was 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  109 

satisfied  to  live  along  on  my  little  property. " 
' '  Certainly  not, "  said  Miss  Dezzie .  ' '  It's 
to  his  credit.  Not  that  I  should  'a  wanted 
you  to  'a  done  different,  Amos.  Chauncey's 
fortune's  brought  him  care  and  trouble.  The 
men  don't  act  like  they  did  thirty  years 
ago." 

"Well,  I  d'  know  as  I  blame  the  men." 
"Well,  /d'  know  as  I  blame  Chauncey 
Gilroy,"  said  Miss  Dezzie.  "  But  I'm  glad 
John  is  such  a  nice  young  man,  and  begin 
ning  to  take  the  load  off  his  father's  shoul 
ders." 

They  heard  a  light  step  in  the  hall. 
"Here  she  is,"  said  one  of  them.  Elinor 
entered.  She  was  fresh  as  the  morning. 

"Yes,  here  she  is!"  she  said,  "and  she's 
glad  she's  here,  and  she's  going  to  stay  here 
forever!" 

When  Chauncey  Gilroy  and  Amos  Pea- 
body  had  come  West  to  make  their  fortunes 
forty  years  before,  Gilroy  had  firmly  in 
tended,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  able,  to  go 


HO  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

back  to  Vermont  for  a  wife.  But  while  he 
was  yet  a  poor  young  man  he  married  Mar 
tha  Simcox — a  bright,  sweet-tempered,  sen 
sible  Indiana  girl,  and  in  the  years  of  his 
happy  married  life  he  grew  to  be,  as  his 
Vermont  friends  said,  "more  Hoosier  than 
Martha  herself."  His  wife  worked  and 
saved  and  helped  him  to  lay  the  foundation 
of  his  fortune.  In  the  early  days  she  knew 
the  families  of  the  workmen,  and  they  were 
all  good  friends  together.  If  now,  when 
the  men  were  numbered  by  hundreds  in 
stead  of  tens,  she  could  not  come  near  to 
them,  it  was  surely  not  a  thing  for  which 
she  was  to  be  blamed. 

The  Gilroys  spent  their  money  without 
conscious  ostentation.  Gilroy  liked  what 
was  substantial;  his  wife  enjoyed  pretty 
things;  so  their  house  was  handsome  and 
pleasing.  They  knew  a  few  very  rich  peo 
ple  away  from  home,  but  the  society  they 
prized  was  that  of  their  plainer  friends  in 
Greenfield.  The  wife's  chief  cares  were  to 
save  her  husband  from  bother,  to  try  to  make 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  III 

a  good  man  of  her  son  Jack,  and  to  help  all 
the  young  people  around  to  have  a  good 
time. 

Mrs.  Gilroy  met  Elinor  during  the  week. 
She  saw  for  herself  that  the  girl  was  not  only 
pretty,  but  well-bred  and  lively.  In  short, 
she  was  what  Mrs.  Gilroy  called  ''nice." 
When  the  time  approached  for  her  guests  to 
arrive  on  Sunday  evening,  she  bethought 
herself  of  her  wish  that  the  girl  should  be 
received  with  special  cordiality.  She  began, 
in  what  she  considered  a  wily  way,  to  gos 
sip  about  the  Peabodys. 

"I  have  always  thought  that  their  ten 
derness  for  that  little  orphan  was  beautiful; 
such  people  as  they  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth." 

'  'Yes,  indeed,"  responded  John.  He  knew 
what  was  coming. 

"Of  course  anyone  would  fear  that  the 
girl  would  be  spoiled  by  their  fondness — I 
own  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  it  myself." 

''Dear  me!  were  you?"  asked  her  son. 

"You  know  I  am  not  one  to  form  hasty 


112  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

opinions,  or  to  take  sudden  fancies,"  she 
said.  John  contemplated  his  cigarette  with 
solemn  interest,  while  the  father  smiled  at 
him  over  Mrs.  Gilroy's  head. 

4 '  And  I  really  am  very  particular  about 
girls,  but  I  must  say  I  was  pleased  with 
Elinor  Fletcher.  She  is  so  gay,  so  helpful, 
so  exactly  what  a  daughter  should  be.  I 
really  think  you'll  take  great  pleasure  in 
knowing  her." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that  she  is  what  you 
say,"  said  Jack,  "but  as  I  am  at  present 
not  conscious  of  needing  the  gayety  and 
helpfulness  of  a  daughter — " 

"Now,  John,  don't  begin  that  way,"  cried 
the  lady;  "I  only  mean  for  you  to  be  nice 
to  her." 

4 « Mrs.  Gilroy,  please  inform  me  if  I  am 
not  always  nice  to  your  guests?" 

4 'Oh  yes — you'll  be  nice  enough,  I  sup 
pose;  but  do  try  to  make  her  like  you." 

44  Mother,  I  assure  you  I  don't  dare  to  try. 
My  effort  must  always  be  in  the  other  direc 
tion  when  I'm  with  the  female  sex.  Mine 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  113 

is  the  fatal  gift  to  fascinate  in  spite  of  my 
self." 

"Oh,  Chauncey,  make  him  behave!" 

As  the  Peabodys  and  Elinor  walked  up 
to  the  house  through  the  well-kept  grounds, 
Miss  Dezzie  talked  of  John.  "He  was  the 
nicest  boy,  but  always  in  mischief.  He 
was  in  my  Sunday-school  class,  he  and 
Dick  Morgan."  ("Poor  Dick,"  said  Amos). 
"They  used  to  come  by  our  house  for  gin 
gerbread  every  Sat'day.  You  wouldn't 
dream,  seeing  John  so  elegant  in  church 
this  morning,  how  dirty  he  used  to  get," 
Miss  Dezzie  added,  to  Elinor. 

* '  What  a  good  time  those  two  boys  had!" 
said  Amos.  "Martha  Gilroy  was  always 
a  sensible  woman.  She  knew  John  got 
no  harm  from  Dick.  They  grew  up  like 
brothers." 

Elinor  listened  politely,  although  she  had 
her  own  opinion.  She  had  thought  when 
she  saw  John  Gilroy  in  church  that  he 
looked  stiff  and  priggish.  He  on  his  part 
vanished  when  he  saw  her  approaching  the 
3 


114  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

house.  ' 'Mother  probably  knows  less  about 
girls  than  anybody  living.  But  of  course 
I'll  go  back  v/hen  tea  is  ready,  and  try  to 
be  agreeable." 

He  came  into  the  dining-room  after  they 
were  seated.  His  slight  look  of  surprise 
when  he  first  saw  Elinor  would  not  have 
been  recognized  by  anyone  who  did  not 
know  him  well.  The  Peabodys  evidently 
understood  the  languid  manner  with  which 
their  niece  was  at  first  displeased.  "He 
must  be  nice,"  the  girl  thought,  "or  Uncle 
Amos  wouldn't  be  on  such  good  terms  with 

him." 

The  meal  was  quite  informal.  A  tidy 
maid  servant  waited  on  the  guests,  but  in 
her  absence  Mrs.  Gilroy  sent  her  son  to  the 
sideboard.  The  old  people  talked  about  the 
morning's  sermon.  The  ladies  agreed  that 
the  preacher  had  been  narrow.  ' '  He  talked 
as  if  there  was  nothing  right  but  Presbyte- 
rianism,"  said  Miss  Dezzie.  "Now  I  think 
there's  something  good  in  every  church." 
"Of  course  there  is, "declared  Mrs.  Gil- 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  115 

roy.    '  <  Some  of  the  best  people  I  ever  knew 
were  Catholics." 

The  young  man  rose  and  gathered  his 
plate  in  one  hand  and  his  teacup  in  the 
other. 

"  This  conversation  is  getting  entirely  too 
lax  for  me.  I  have  never  realized  until 
now  the  danger  the  community  is  in  from 
the  loose  views  of  advanced  and  radical 
women  like  mother  and  Miss  Dezzie.  If  I 
cannot  stem  the  tide  I  can  at  least,  as  I  go 
down,  make  my  weak  protest  against  such 
destructive  views.  I  shall  sit  by  these  per 
sons  no  longer."  He  moved  down  the 
table,  stopped  a  moment  at  Uncle  Amos' 
side,  then  doubtfully  shook  his  head  and 
moved  on.  He  stood  before  Elinor  and 
looked  at  her  sternly.  <  <  Miss  Fletcher,  ere 
I  let  myself  sit  down  by  you  answer  me  one 
thing.  Are  you  entirely  sound  on  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles?" 

"I  am,"  said  she.  "Pray  be  seated, 
and  you  and  I  in  the  middle  of  a  degener- 


Il6  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

ate  age  will  together  uphold  the  banner  of 
truth." 

The  old  people  laughed.  ' '  It's  a  little 
queer,  Jack,  considering  how  strict  your 
views  are,"  said  Mr.  Gilroy,  ''that  your 
mother  has  such  a  hard  time  getting  you  to 
church. " 

' '  I  am  misunderstood  in  that  as  well  as 
in  other  matters, "  answered  John.  "The 
fact  is,  I  can't  get  my  conscience  recon 
ciled  to  instrumental  music." 

"Your  situation  is  painful,  truly,"  said 
Elinor.  "No  doubt,  too,  you  disapprove 
of  promiscuous  sittings." 

"I  do  indeed,"  he  answered,  "and  I  am 
glad  to  feel  that  the  young  sister  agrees 
with  me." 

The  conversation  became  divided  after 
tea.  John  and  Elinor  went  to  one  corner 
of  the  drawing-room  to  see  a  new  picture, 
and  remained  there.  Mrs.  Gilroy  beamed 
approvingly  when  she  saw  that  her  son  was 
really  exerting  himself  to  entertain  the 
young  woman.  She  had  no  doubt  that  any 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  1 1/ 

girl  would  like  John  if  he  would  be  but  half 
way  pleasant. 

As  the  guests  were  about  to  leave,  the 
young  man  addressed  his  mother: 

' < I  asked  Miss  Fletcher,  as  you  told  me 
to,  if  she  played  tennis,  and  she's  accepted 
your  invitation  for  to-morrow  afternoon. " 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  gushed  the  good  lady, 
who  had  never  heard  of  the  matter  till  that 
minute. 

When  they  were  gone,  Mrs.  Gilroy,  full 
of  the  pleasure  of  the  occasion,  turned  to 
her  son: 

"Well,  it  wasn't  so  very  hard,  was  it?" 

" Mother,"  he  said  pensively,  "I'd  go 
through  even  more  than  that  to  please  you!" 

"Really,  Jack,"  said  the  father,  "your 
devotion  to  your  mother's  wishes  this  even 
ing  brought  tears  to  my  eyes. " 

From  that  time  on  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  tennis  played  on  the  Gilroy's  court,  and 
John  Gilroy  seemed  to  think  it  only  com 
mon  courtesy  to  stroll  home  with  Elinor 
after  the  game  was  over.  Other  girls  were 


Ii8  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

there,  too.  He  knew  them  much  better 
than  he  knew  Elinor,  and  she  thought  it 
very  nice  of  him  to  pay  so  much  attention 
to  her.  Mrs.  Gilroy  was  always  sending 
over  to  suggest  a  picnic  supper  down  the 
river  or  out  on  the  Indian  mound. 

A  rainy  week  came.  John  Gilroy  was 
out  of  town.  Elinor  wrote  long  accounts 
of  the  picnics  and  tennis  games  to  her 
school  friends,  but  the  days  seemed  a  little 
dull.  Late  one  afternoon  she  saw  the 
young  man's  knowing  mail-phaeton  dash  up 
the  road.  It  stopped  at  her  uncle's  gate. 
The  groom  sprang  to  the  ground,  touched 
his  hat  and  caught  the  reins  with  the  same 
motion  as  his  master  passed  him. 

The  young  man,  faultlessly  dressed, 
walked  deliberately  up  the  path.  When  he 
rang,  Elinor  opened  the  door  (such  was  the 
friendly  custom  of  the  house).  "Good 
evening,"  he  said;  "is  there  any  ginger 
bread  about  the  place?" 

' '  I  think  so, "  she  answered.      ' '  Will  you 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS 

wait  while  I  find  out?"  She  came  back 
smiling:  "  Yes,  there's  lots. " 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  hat; 
"if  Mr.  Peabody  and  Miss  Dezzie  are  will 
ing  I'd  like  to  stay  to  supper." 

He  often  came  to  supper,  and  in  the 
evening  the  two  young  people  sat  on  the 
porch,  and  at  intervals  one  of  them  played 
on  mandolin  or  guitar.  The  elders,  per 
fectly  happy,  sat  inside,  Miss  Dezzie  knit 
ting  and  Mr.  Peabody  reading  the  paper. 

One  night  Mr.  Peabody  lowered  his  voice 
and  said  to  his  sister:  (<Do  you  know, 
Dezzie,  I  think  there's  a  little  sparking  go 
ing  on  out  there!" 

Miss  Dezzie  flamed  up  in  virginal  indig 
nation. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Amos, 
to  have  such  thoughts?  If  you  put  such  a 
notion  as  that  in  their  heads  I'll  never  for 
give  you!" 

The  old  man  grinned  sheepishly,  and  said 
no  more. 

But  only  a  night  or  two  later  the  young 


120  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

people  came  in  together  through  the  open 
window.  The  young  man's  eyes  shone  and 
he  laughed  for  happiness. 

' '  I  have  asked  Elinor  to  marry  me, "  he 
said,  "and  she  says  she  will  if  you  two  will 
consent.'' 

"Come  let  me  give  you  a  good  hug,"  said 
Miss  Dezzie.  "This  is  just  what  I've  been 
expecting." 

The  personal  impression  which  Dick  Mor 
gan  had  made  on  Elinor's  mind  soon  faded 
away,  but  her  determination  to  try  to  help 
the  distressed  and  down-trodden  remained 
almost  as  definite  as  it  was  at  first.  Early 
in  her  engagement  she  thought  with  pleas 
ure  that  she  would  now  be  in  a  position  to 
do  more  than  she  could  have  otherwise  done. 
The  Labor-Day  picnic  she  had  never  spoken 
of  to  her  aunt  and  uncle.  At  first  she  re 
frained  because  they  were  already  so  dis 
tressed  at  having  been  absent  when  she 
arrived;  and  then,  with  the  Montagues  gone, 
and  many  new  interests  coming  to  her,  the 
whole  thing  seemed  far  away  and  irrelevant. 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  121 

Nevertheless,  she  was  anxious  to  tell  her 
lover.  She  hoped  indeed  that  she  might 
bring  him  to  think  pleasantly  of  Morgan. 
It  was  evident  that  there  was  some  coolness 
between  the  two.  She  was  the  more  de 
sirous  of  doing  this  because  suddenly  trouble 
threatened  in  the  shops.  The  unions  held 
meetings  every  night  with  closed  doors. 
Strange-looking  men  appeared  in  town. 
Some  of  the  best  hands  stopped  work  and 
moved  away.  The  two  Gilroys  were  busy 
and  careworn.  "  To-night  I  will  tell  John 
all  about  my  acquaintance  with  Morgan, " 
resolved  Elinor,  in  an  access  of  conscien 
tiousness. 

He  came  earlier  than  usual  that  evening 
and  sat  on  the  porch  with  her  aunt  while 
she  finished  a  letter  which  she  was  writing. 

4 'You  look  tired,  John,"  she  heard  her 
aunt  say. 

' '  I  am  tired ;  I'm  awfully  worried.  Things 
are  pretty  bad  at  the  shops.  Nothing  is 
certain  from  one  hour  to  the  next." 

«  What  do  the  men  want?" 


122  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

"We  don't  know,  and  I  don't  believe 
that  they  know.  It  seems  pretty  rough 
when  we've  always  tried  to  treat  them 
fairly,"  he  added.  4 '  However,  I'm  not  going 
to  complain.  What  disturbs  me  most  is 
the  fear  that  we  may  have  to  postpone  our 
marriage." 

4 'Where  is  Dick  Morgan?"  asked  Miss 
Dezzie,  after  a  pause. 

*  *  I  don't  know, "  replied  John.  « '  I  would 
rather  not  think  of  him,  not  hear  of  him,'' 
he  went  on,  in  a  voice  vibrant  with  a  pro 
testing  indignation.  He  felt  that  the  man 
who  had  been  for  so  much  of  his  life  his 
dearest  friend  had  now,  without  offense  on 
his  own  part,  chosen  to  regard  him  as  an 
enemy.  That  man  was  now  absent,  through 
such  a  troublous  time  as  this — and  work 
ing  against  him  from  a  distance,  probably. 
Far  less  prompt  and  clear-sighted  than 
Morgan  in  detecting  the  inevitable  ending 
of  the  perfect  equality  of  their  boyhood, 
Gilroy  was  hurt  and  angered  by  his  friend's 
defection,  and  in  the  other's  concern  for 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  123 

"his  own  people"  he  even  scented  the  pres 
ence  of  hypocrisy.  ' '  You  know  what  that 
man  was  to  me,  Miss  Dezzie,"  he  said,  as  if 
the  words  were  forced  out  of  him.  "Well, 
he  has  gone  back  on  me." 

"Oh,  maybe  he  hasn't,"  she  said,  com 
fortingly. 

4  '  I'd  give  anything  to  think  that  he  hasn't, 
but  I  can't  see  anything  in  it  except  that. 
What  I  want  to  do  is  to  forget  all  about 
him.  He's  gone,  and  I  hope  he  won't  come 
back." 

After  a  pause  he  spoke  more  calmly: 
* '  You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  it  is  to 
me  that  Elinor  doesn't  know  anything  about 
all  this.  There  isn't  a  soul  about  here  but 
her  who  doesn't  know  all  the  ins  and  outs 
of  the  relations  of  the  shops  and  the  men. 
It's  such  a  relief  to  get  away  from  it  once 
in  a  while." 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  him  to-night,"  said 
Elinor  to  herself. 

The  troubles  blew  over  and  the  young 
people  were  married  about  six  months  from 


124  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

the  time  when  they  first  met.  They  went  to 
live  in  a  beautiful  house  that  Mr.  Gilroy  had 
built  for  them  in  one  corner  of  his  grounds. 
With  every  month  Elinor  loved  her  husband 
better.  She  admired  his  manliness,  his  in 
tegrity,  his  generosity;  and  she  delighted  in 
his  responsive  mind  and  fastidious  taste. 
She  was  very  happy.  At  times  she  thought 
of  Morgan  and  his  speech  with  a  stinging 
fear  that  she  had  been  disloyal  to  what  she 
had  promised  herself  to  do.  But  she  dis 
pelled  her  uneasiness  with  the  thought  that 
the  men  were  contented  and  Morgan  might 
never  come  back;  if  he  did  she  would  tell 
her  husband  of  the  friendship  she  had  prom 
ised  to  him  and  to  his  cause. 

One  afternoon  several  months  after  her 
marriage,  she  drove  to  the  works.  She  sent 
the  carriage  away  and  started  to  walk  home 
with  her  husband.  Some  workmen  came 
out  of  a  shop  entrance  and  stood  aside  to 
let  the  two  pass.  Elinor  glanced  up  and  saw 
Morgan.  A  look  of  recognition  came  over 
her  face.  He  turned  scarlet,  and  so  did 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  125 

she.  But  in  a  breath  she  was  past  him. 
The  next  moment  she  and  her  husband 
were  joined  by  a  young  woman  of  their 
acquaintance. 

"Oh,  why  did  I  not  speak  to  him?"  Elinor 
kept  thinking.  "But  it  was  so  sudden.  I 
did  not  know  that  he  was  back  here  again, 
and  now  I  can't  make  John  understand." 

She  thought  of  it  all  night.  To  seem  to 
have  forgotten  in  her  luxury  and  ease  the 
promises  she  had  made  to  one  less  fortunate 
was  unspeakably  shameful.  "If  I  could 
see  him  just  one  moment,"  she  said,  "and 
tell  him  I  was  surprised  out  of  my  senses!" 
She  even  mentally  composed  notes  to  him. 
The  next  day  she  went  again  for  her  hus 
band.  He  was  not  quite  ready  to  go,  and 
as  she  waited  for  him  she  paced  up  and 
down  the  asphalt  walk  that  ran  past  the 
offices  and  along  the  side  of  the  high  iron 
fence  that  shut  the  works  from  the  street. 

John  Gilroy,  standing  near  a  window  as 
he  gave  some  last  orders,  saw  Dick  Morgan 
come  out  of  the  gate.  He  saw  his  wife  ad- 


126  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

vance,  and  the  severity  of  Morgan's  face 
lighten  as  she  spoke.  And  then  the  two 
parted  as  quietly  as  they  had  met.  John 
was  bewildered.  "In  heaven's  name,  what 
does  that  mean?"  he  said.  And  then  he 
bethought  himself:  ' 'She  probably  took  him 
for  the  gardener  and  asked  him  about  the 
beds  of  foliage  plants  on  the  grass-plat." 
But  he  did  not  forget  the  occurrence. 

The  setting  up  of  a  new  household  had 
stimulated  the  social  life  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  The  wealthier  families  of  the  adja 
cent  manufacturing  towns  plied  the  young 
people  with  invitations  and  visits.  Guests 
were  constantly  in  the  house.  Their  way 
of  living  became  much  more  luxurious  than 
that  of  the  older  Gilroys.  There  were  more 
servants,  more  carriages;  there  was  more 
display  of  every  sort.  This  was  not  because 
either  John  or  Elinor  wished  to  make  a  show 
of  wealth,  but  because  it  was  easy  and 
pleasant  to  adopt  the  habits  of  their  asso 
ciates. 

In  this  manner  the  gulf  between  the  houses 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  12? 

of  employer  and  employed  grew  wider  every 
month.  John  was  conscious  of  this,  and 
sometimes  painfully  so,  when  he  saw  Dick 
Morgan's  pale  face  and  shabby  coat. 

"But  why  should  I  make  myself  unhappy 
about  that?"  he  said,  grimly;  "it's  Dick's 
own  doing — not  mine." 

These  thoughts  grew  frequent,  and  the  old 
yearning  for  Dick's  friendship  came  back. 
One  day  he  stepped  to  the  door  of  his  office: 
"  Send  to  the  East  shop  for  Dick  Morgan," 
he  said;  "I  want  to  see  him." 

A  moment  later  he  added  to  himself, 
"And  what  I'll  say  to  him  when  he  comes 
I  don't  know." 

Morgan  came  in,  erect  and  grave.  He 
looked  straight  at  Gilroy.  « 'Well,  what  do 
you  want?" 

"Sit  down,  Dick,"  said  Gilroy,  but  Mor 
gan  remained  standing..  Gilroy  rose,  his 
feeling  varying  between  hurt  pride  and  the 
old  friendship. 

"Dick,"  he  said  at  last,  "can't  we  make 
up  somehow?" 


128  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

* '  I  don't  see  how  we  can, ' '  answered  Mor 
gan,  simply.  The  two  stood  and  looked  at 
each  other.  All  conventionalities  were 
stripped  off. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  bother  about  it  since 
you  are  so  plaguey  cool,"  said  Gilroy,  hotly; 
then  he  burst  out,  "Dick,  don't  you  see 
this  is  pretty  rough  on  me  sometimes?" 

'  *  It's  pretty  rough  on  me  all  the  time, 
Jack,"  said  Morgan. 

"Well,  isn't  it  your  own  fault?"  said  Gil 
roy.  "You  know  I'd  make  you  foreman  of 
one  of  the  shops  or  take  you  here  in  the 
office  or  do  anything  else  just  to  have  your 
friendship — to  believe  in  it  as  I  used  to." 

' '  I  don't  want  your  jobs,  friendship  or  no 
friendship.  I  only  came  back  because  the 
Union  sent  me.  I  earn  every  cent  I  get 
and  you  know  it." 

"And  you  slap  me  in  the  face  when  I  try 
to  show  you  I'm  in  earnest!" 

"I  suppose  it  seems  that  way,  but  I  can't 
take  favors  and  I  won't,"  said  Dick. 

"Good  heavens,  it  isn't  a  favor!     We 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  129 

grew  up  together  like  brothers.  Do  you 
remember  how  you  used  to  climb  up  the 
lightning  rod  and  sleep  with  me  when  your 
old  daddy  came  home  drunk  at  night?" 
In  a  momentary  cessation  of  antagonism 
the  two  smiled  at  each  other  like  boys. 

'  *  Yes,  and  it  was  pretty  often, "  said  Mor 
gan.  "And  do  you  remember  the  time  we 
camped  out?"  he  added,  softening  still  fur 
ther. 

"Yes,"  said  Gilroy,  "and  the  time  when 
we  read  the  ' Three  Musketeers'  in  the  old 
apple  tree?  And  you  got  so  excited  you  fell 
out  of  the  tree  into  the  cider  vat?"  They 
laughed  and  then  were  silent.  Their  faces 
grew  stern  again.  Gilroy  spoke  first :  '  'How 
did  things  get  this  way?" 

'  *  Oh,  I  don't  know, "  said  Morgan.  *  'Jack, 
what's  the  use?  It  just  hurts,  and  we  can't 
change  it!" 

"But  maybe  we  could  change  it,"  per 
sisted  Gilroy.      "When  did  it  begin?     I've 
asked  myself  a  thousand  times,  and  I  can't 
think." 
9 


130  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Morgan  reflected.  "I  think  it  began 
when  you  first  came  back  from  school,"  he 
said,  as  calmly  and  candidly  as  if  he  were 
recalling  an  historical  date. 

Gilroy  flushed  up.  ' '  Dick,  I  may  have 
been  a  fool  then — I  was  a  silly  boy — but 
before  Heaven  I  didn't  mean  to  brag.  I 
didn't  brag  half  as  much  as  you  did  the  time 
you  ran  away  and  went  to  the  State  Fair 
at  Indianapolis.  It  was  all  of  a  piece  with 
that!" 

"You  were  kind  of  offish,"  said  Morgan. 

" Offish!  well  I  should  smile!  I  came 
home  expecting  to  have  a  good  time  with 
you,  and  you'd  cut  off  with  any  fellow  under 
the  sun  rather  than  me!  You  know,  Dick 
Morgan,  that  you  left  me  to  go  fishing 
alone — "  He  stopped  with  the  impatience 
of  a  man  who  feels  a  petty  thing  and  is 
ashamed  of  it. 

Dick  stared.  Could  it  be  that  Jack  had 
actually  been  jealous?  No,  it  was  too  ab 
surd. 

Gilroy  continued:     "And  then  when  I 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  131 

coaxed  my  father  into  saying  he'd  send  you 
to  college  with  me  you  wouldn't  go — Oh, 
you  were  mighty  fond  of  me!" 

"  I  couldn't  go  then — I  was  too  proud  by 
then." 

"Too  proud!  Isn't  anybody  else  proud 
but  you?  Dick,  I'd  have  shared  your  last 
dollar  then  if  I'd  needed  it,  and  you  know  it!" 

For  the  first  time  Dick  broke  out  in  a 
rage:  "For  mercy's  sake,  man,  be  still! 
Are  you  an  idiot?  Can't  you  see  that  I'd 
have  shared  your  last  dollar  (as  God  knows 
I  would  now),  but  the  cursed  thing  about  it 
was  that  it  wasn't  your  last  dollar!"  Then 
he  spoke  more  quietly:  "It's  no  use.  I 
told  you  so  in  the  beginning;"  he  put  his 
hand  on  the  door  knob  as  he  spoke. 

"Well,  if  you've  determined  we  can't  be 
friends  I  am  sure  I  won't  beg  you,"  said 
Gilroy,  coldly. 

*  *  No,  we  can't  be  friends. "  Morgan  was 
about  to  go  when  a  sudden  impulse  struck 
Gilroy. 

"Look   here,"   he    said;    "tell   me  the 


132  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

truth,  anyhow.     Is  there  any  other  reason 
why  we  can't  be  friends?" 

Morgan  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

" There  is,"  he  said. 

Ill 

A  hard  winter  set  in  early.  The  Chaun- 
cey  Gilroy  Company  had  a  heavy  load  to 
carry.  Other  mill  owners  closed  their  doors 
to  wait  for  better  times,  and  advised  the 
Gilroys  to  do  the  same.  The  old  man  re 
fused  to  think  of  it.  "The  Gilroy  mills 
have  not  lost  a  day  in  thirty  years,  and  we're 
not  going  to  close  up  now  just  because  we're 
not  making  much. "  Fewer  and  fewer  orders 
came  in  at  anything  like  reasonable  prices. 
There  was  really  not  enough  work  to  go 
around.  The  Gilroys  and  their  superintend 
ents  spent  hours  in  consultation.  Young 
Gilroy  and  the  others  agreed  that  the  thing 
to  do  was  to  put  all  hands  on  half  work. 
But  his  father  objected:  "  I  don't  like  that, 
and  the  men  won't.  It  looks  crooked.  If 
we've  got  to  do  something  we  will  keep  all 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  133 

the  married  men  at  the  present  rates — 
they've  got  their  wives  and  young  ones — 
and  lay  off  the  single  men." 

The  single  men  did  not  move  on  in  search 
of  other  work,  as  had  been  expected.  All 
day  they  clustered  in  idle,  discontented 
groups  around  the  station  and  near  the  gates, 
and  at  night  they  rilled  the  saloons  with 
brawling,  hungry  drunkards.  What  else 
could  they  do,  they  asked?  The  old  man 
knew  when  he  discharged  them  that  there 
wasn't  a  job  in  two  hundred  miles. 

At  Lunderville,  ten  miles  away,  the  situ 
ation  was  worse.  The  Lunders  had  kept 
their  factories  open  and  had  taken  contract 
after  contract  at  low  prices.  Then  they 
made  heavy  cuts  in  the  wages,  claiming 
in  a  statement  to  the  men  that  they  were 
obliged  to  reduce  wages  forty  per  cent  all 
round  to  work  out  the  contracts,  but  declar 
ing  that  they  wanted  to  do  the  fair  thing 
and  to  keep  the  men  if  it  were  possible. 
The  men  agreed,  and  worked  for  weeks  on 
starvation  wages.  Many  a  good  steady  man 


134  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

with  a  family  could  only  make  a  dollar  a 
day.  Suddenly  a  discovery  was  made.  The 
cuts  were  out  of  all  proportion.  Even  at 
the  low  prices  of  the  contracted  work  the 
Lunders  were  piling  up  immense  profits 
while  their  men  starved  and  froze.  A  strike 
was  ordered,  and  two  thousand  men  were 
adrift  without  money  or  employment. 

It  was  hoped  by  the  union  that  the  pros 
pect  of  heavy  damages  on  unfilled  contracts 
would  bring  the  Lunders  to  terms,  but  the 
head  of  the  firm  bragged  privately  to  the 
Gilroys  that  they  couldn't  be  bullied  worth 
a  cent.  The  largest  of  the  contracts  were 
only  begun,  prices  had  gone  down  so  that 
some  of  the  big  firms  East  would  like  well 
enough  to  take  the  whole  thing  off  their 
hands.  He  showed  the  Gilroys  letters, 
which  he  afterward  left  with  them,  from 
Ohio  and  Pennsylvania  manufacturers  con 
taining  definite  offers.  He  said  he  was  just 
itching  to  get  the  whole  thing  lifted  off  to 
another  part  of  the  country;  it  would  teach 
the  men  not  to  monkey  with  the  buzz-saw. 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  135 

The  matter  of  the  strike  made  great  ex 
citement  at  Greenfield.  Nothing  else  was 
talked  of,  and  resolutions  were  passed  de 
nouncing  the  Lunders  and  expressing  sym 
pathy  for  the  strikers.  As  for  the  Lunder 
brothers,  they  took  their  families  and  went 
off  to  the  Mediterranean. 

The  indignation  of  the  Gilroys,  father  and 
son,  although  not  expressed  publicly,  was 
not  less  than  that  of  the  men. 

"The  Lunders  lack  common  humanity," 
said  John;  "they  are  lost  in  greed  and  tyr 
anny." 

"They  are  dirty  dogs!"  roared  the  father. 
"I  don't  want  any  money  made  that  way. 
I'd  just  like  to  show  'em  the  way  an  honest 
man  treats  his  hands. " 

This  thought  took  possession  of  him,  and 
it  was  not  long  until  he  conceived  of  a  plan 
which  he  hastened  to  put  forth. 

"Jack,"  said  he,  "the  thing  for  us  to 
do  is  to  enlarge  our  plant  and  take  the  Lun 
ders'  unfulfilled  contracts,  and  set  things 
humming  in  this  neck  of  the  woods." 


136  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

The  young  man  held  out  against  it  for 
several  days.  "I  don't  like  it,  father,"  he 
said.  "It's  like  letting  out  sail  in  a  storm. 
On  one  side  there  are  awful  risks,  and  on 
the  other  there  is  no  margin  of  profit  at 
the  contract  prices  unless  we  cut  wages 
too." 

"Who  wants  a  profit?"  shouted  the  old 
man.  "Even  if  we  lose  a  little  we  can 
stand  it.  What  we  want  is  to  help  the  men 
through  this  winter." 

"But  you  must  remember  that  if  we  take 
the  contracts  this  late  in  the  day  we  sha'n't 
have  a  chance  to  avoid  the  penalty  if  we 
don't  get  the  work  done  in  time.  Just  let 
the  men  get  it  into  their  heads  to  strike 
and  we're  hung  up  with  fires  out,  engines 
rusting,  and  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
damages  to  pay." 

"What  in  thunder  could  the  men  strike 
about?  I'm  not  going  to  cut  wages — not  one 
cent.  It's  cold  business;  the  men  can't 
strike.  It's  to  their  interest  to  stay — and 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  137 

even  if  it  wasn't  I  verily  believe  they 
wouldn't  leave  the  old  firm  in  the  lurch." 

A  force  of  masons  and  machinists  were 
set  to  work,  and  in  a  short  time  the  Gilroy 
factory  started  in  with  increased  capacity 
and  on  full  time.  All  of  the  former  Gilroy 
men  were  taken  back  and  work  was  found 
for  some  of  the  Lunder  men.  There  was 
great  rejoicing  among  the  town-people. 
The  old  man  stood  in  the  door  of  the  office 
and  rubbed  his  hands  with  pleasure  at  the 
sight  of  the  men's  cheerful  faces. 

"Fine  fellows!  I  want  'em  to  know  that 
no  man  ever  worked  for  Chauncey  Gilroy 
and  was  the  worse  for  it." 

But  although  as  many  of  the  Lunderville 
men  were  given  work  as  was  possible,  there 
was  dissatisfaction  almost  immediately 
among  the  strikers  at  that  place.  What 
right  had  Gilroy  to  take  the  Lunders'  con 
tracts  off  their  hands?  By  so  doing  the 
men  declared  he  had  cut  them  out  of  their 
one  chance  of  redress.  Meetings  were  held 
for  two  or  three  nights,  and  finally  resolu- 


13^  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

tions  were  adopted  calling  on  the  Greenfield 
men  to  support  the  strikers  in  their  fight 
against  Lunder  and  Gilroy. 

The  next  morning  the  Greenfield  men 
went  to  work  as  usual,  but  anxious  women 
stood  in  doorways  and  looked  down  the 
street  for  news,  and  some  little  groups  lin 
gered  on  the  street  near  the  gates. 

At  three  o'clock  the  message  came  from 
the  Central  Committee.  At  five  minutes 
past  three  a  delegate  walked  into  each  shop 
and  threw  up  his  arms.  Without  a  word 
the  men  put  down  their  tools  and  silently 
marched  out.  At  ten  minutes  past  three 
the  shops  were  empty,  fifteen  hundred  work 
men  were  assembled  on  the  common,  and 
the  sympathetic  strike  was  on. 

The  men  held  meetings  every  day  and 
night.  Windy  orators  thronged  in  from 
outside  and  called  on  the  men  to  stand  for 
their  rights — never  to  give  up — the  country 
was  with  them.  A  blizzard  came,  and  a 
woman  froze  to  death.  Scarlet  fever  broke 
out  among  the  children.  Chauncey  Gilroy 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  139 

worked  himself  into  an  illness  in  his  rage  at 
the  men's  ingratitude  and  folly.  "Let 
them  starve,"  he  shouted;  "maybe  it'll 
teach  'em  a  little  sense."  John  Gilroy  sat 
in  his  empty  office  all  day  and  walked  the 
floor  the  most  of  the  night.  Elinor  lay 
awake  thinking  of  the  sick  babies  who  begged 
their  mothers  for  a  little  more  milk,  and  of 
that  woman  in  childbirth  who  had  had  the 
bed  taken  from  under  her  and  split  up  into 
fuel  to  keep  her  alive. 

One  cold  afternoon  Elinor  and  her  hus 
band  came  out  of  the  Postoffice.  A  crowd 
stood  around  the  entrance  and  did  not  move 
to  let  them  pass.  John  Gilroy  pushed  a 
man  or  two  aside  rather  roughly. 

A  woman  thinly  wrapped  and  coughing 
frightfully  hung  on  to  Gilroy's  arm  and 
begged  for  money.  He  shook  her  off.  She 
grew  more  noisy;  he  called  to  a  policeman, 
4  ( Take  this  woman  in  charge. "  The  woman 
began  to  scream.  She  looked  at  Elinor, 
who  recognized  her  as  the  McCoy  woman 
whom  she  had  seen  at  the  picnic.  The 


140  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

policeman  seized  her,  but  she  writhed  away 
from  him  like  a  wounded  snake  and  spit  her 
fury  out  on  Gilroy.  "Oh,  you've  got  a 
sweet-scented  wife,  haven't  you?  She  was 
with  Dick  Morgan  before  you  ever  saw  her.  " 

After  this  Elinor  was  more  wretched  than 
ever.  Her  sense  of  justice  forced  her  to 
see  that  the  McCoy  woman  was  not  to  be 
blamed,  and  yet  she  could  not  (or  at  any 
rate  she  thought  she  could  not)  burden  her 
husband  with  a  fresh  trouble  at  such  a  time 
as  this. 

"Elinor,"  said  he,  the  next  day,  "I  am 
glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that  that  woman 
is  sentenced  to  hard  labor  for  sixty  days." 

She  shook  from  head  to  foot.  "Oh, 
John! — that  is  too  hard — the  woman  was 
just  drunk!" 

"That's  all  right,"  he  answered  sternly. 
'  *  I  used  all  the  influence  I  have  to  get  some 
floating  sentences  for  former  misdemeanors 
raked  up  against  her,  and  I  guess  she  won't 
be  drunk  again  soon." 

A  rumor  got  about   among  the  strikers 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  141 

that  really  the  Gilroys  were  not  so  much  to 
be  blamed.  Some  one  had  heard  a  super 
intendent  of  the  Lunderville  shops  say  that 
Chauncey  Gilroy  had  stepped  in  and  kept 
the  work  from  going  to  Pittsburg.  If  this 
was  true  the  Committee  wanted  to  know 
it,  but  they  did  not  want  to  make  an  open 
inquiry.  They  therefore  asked  for  a  meet 
ing  with  the  Gilroys,  their  purpose  being 
to  ask  for  confidential  information  about 
that  and  other  matters.  Old  Mr.  Gilroy 
rolled  over  in  his  sick  bed  when  he  got  the 
message  and  asked  if  the  men  wanted  to 
come  back.  "  We  think  not,"  answered  a 
clerk.  '  *  We  think  they  want  to  look  at  the 
books." 

"Tell  them  I'll  see  them  when  they  say 
they  want  to  come  back;  tell  them  they 
can  go  to  hell  for  all  I  care." 

This  message  was  softened  a  little,  but  it 
nevertheless  hurt  the  men  a  good  deal  to 
have  the  old  man  treat  them  like  that. 
They  made  another  less  formal  attempt  to 
get  a  hearing.  This  was  addressed  to  John 


I42  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Gilroy  personally.  An  unofficial  Commit 
tee  of  which  Morgan  was  the  head  asked 
for  the  privilege  of  meeting  him  at  any 
time  he  might  appoint.  The  young  man 
was  in  the  office  when  the  request  for  this 
conference  came  to  him.  He  received  very 
civilly  the  men  who  brought  the  message 
and  took  from  them  the  list  of  names  of  the 
proposed  Committee.  After  reading  it  he 
looked  up  and  spoke  coldly:  "I  abso 
lutely  refuse  to  receive,  now  or  at  any  other 
time,  any  committee  or  delegation  of  which 
Mr.  Morgan  is  a  member." 

This  was  an  insult  which  even  the  most 
peaceable  of  the  men  felt  must  be  resented. 
The  elder  Gilroy  fumed  when  he  heard  of 
it.  "Jack,  I  believe  you're  crazy.  Dick's 
a  crank,  but  he  means  to  keep  the  men 
straight  and  he's  done  it  time  and  again.  I 
feel  like  sending  for  them  and  telling  them 
you  made  a  fool  of  yourself — though  I  don't 
suppose  they  had  anything  to  say  of  any 
importance." 

Things  grew  worse  every  day.     The  Gil- 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  143 

roys  tried  to  bring  in  men  from  outside, 
but  they,  poor  wretches,  were  frightened 
away  by  the  awful  cry  of  "Scab!"  which 
the  working  man  fears  more  than  God  or 
devil.  The  police  force  was  doubled. 
There  were  threats  of  burning  the  shops. 

A  coarsely-printed  anonymous  little  sheet 
began  to  be  circulated  on  the  streets.  Eli 
nor  found  a  copy  under  the  door.  It  was 
addressed  to  her.  She  tried  to  put  it  into 
the  fire — she  knew  it  would  contain  abuse 
of  her  husband — but  in  spite  of  herself  she 
read  the  article,  which  was  marked  to  at 
tract  notice.  It  was  as  follows:  "There 
has  been  a  decision  in  a  New  York  case 
lately  that  a  man  and  woman  who  take 
each  other  as  man  and  wife  before  wit 
nesses  even  as  a  joke  are  really  married  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law.  The  Indiana  law  is 
probably  the  same  as  the  New  York  law. 
This  may  prove  interesting  to  the  partici 
pants  in  a  certain  picnic  two  years  ago,  and 
particularly  to  the  alleged  wife  of  a  million 
aire  who  is  living  in  luxury  on  the  money 


144  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

wrung  from  his  starving  employes.  One 
thing  that  makes  the  matter  still  more  in 
teresting  is  that  Jim  Martin,  who  performed 
the  ceremony,  is  a  justice  of  the  peace  and 
authorized  to  perform  marriages." 

Elinor's  heart  stood  still  and  the  earth 
seemed  to  fall  from  beneath  her  feet.  She 
looked  again  at  the  coarse  head-lines  in  big 
letters:  "Is  She  a  Bigamist  or  Merely  a 
Flirt?" 

She  threw  the  paper  into  the  fire,  and 
tried  to  get  her  scattered  senses  together. 
She  was  frightfully  ill,  but  at  least  she 
could  try  to  keep  down  every  sign  of  the 
physical  pain  that  accompanied  her  shame 
and  misery.  Jack  when  he  came  home 
must  not  be  worried  over  her. 

As  she  moved  about  the  library  that  eve 
ning  she  was  full  of  blind  resentment  at  a 
Providence  that  let  her  suffer  so  much.  "  I 
did  not  deserve  this,"  she  said.  "I  did 
nothing  wrong;  I  yielded  to  no  temptation." 
At  other  times  she  was  overwhelmed  with 
remorse.  ' '  I  have  hurt  everybody.  What 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  145 

will  all  these  people  think  of  me? — that  I'm 
false,  vain,  wicked.  It  is  I  who  should  be 
in  prison,  and  not  that  poor  woman."  She 
felt  that  because  she  had  a  secret  on  her 
conscience  she  had  not  dared  to  take  the 
part  of  the  men  to  her  husband  and  his 
father.  It  was  the  consequence  of  her  sin 
that  her  mouth  had  been  closed.  "  If  only 
I  could  atone,"  she  thought,  "  could  in  some 
way  help  to  bring  about  a  better  time,  and 
then  vanish  forever!" 

This  longing  to  make  some  sort  of  atone 
ment  took  a  disproportionate  place  in  her 
racked  fancy.  She  was  conscious  of  her 
own  voice  speaking  to  her  husband.  She 
asked  him  about  the  strike — the  beginning, 
the  claims  of  the  men,  and  all  the  questions 
that  thus  far  she  had  avoided.  For  the  first 
time  he  talked  to  her  freely;  he  seemed  to 
find  some  unexpected  relief  in  the  discus 
sion.  He  did  not  suppose,  did  not  believe, 
that  she  understood,  but  nevertheless  he 
went  into  the  details.  He  even  showed  her 
the  Lunders'  letters  from  the  other  people 


146  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

who  had  wanted  to  take  the  contracts. 
His  wife  could  see  that  he  had  gone  over 
and  over  the  thing  in  his  own  mind  till  his 
courage  and  his  nerve  were  almost  lost. 

"Why  do  you  not  give  up  to  the  men?" 
she  asked. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  give  up  but  the 
contracts,  and  when  we  give  them  up  there 
will  be  no  work  for  the  men  to  do. 
We  could  not  open  at  all  if  we  were  to  do 
what  they  are  demanding." 

"If  the  strike  is  lasting  and  the  works 
remain  closed  for  a  long  time  it  will  ruin 
you,  will  it  not?" 

'  *  We  are  ruined,  anyway,  unless  the  men 
come  back  before  Saturday.  That's  the 
limit;  a  week  later  and  we  cannot  by  any 
earthly  possibility  finish  the  contracted 
work  in  time." 

' '  But  can't  you  talk  with  the  men?  Can't 
you  explain  to  them  that  you  were  really 
helping  them?"  she  persisted. 

' '  They  ought  to  know  without  being  told, 
and  I  won't  go  to  begging  them.  I  am  not 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  147 

afraid  of  poverty;  mother  is  fixed,  and  I  can 
take  care  of  you.  The  thing  that  breaks 
me  up  is  to  have  to  go  before  the  world  as 
a  failure,  as  a  man  who  couldn't  hold  his 
own.  That  just  takes  the  life  out  of  me — 
when  we  had  meant  so  well  by  the  men, 
too.  And  they  are  hurting  themselves;  if 
we  go  under,  and  I  suppose  we  are  bound 
to,  Greenfield  bursts  like  a  bubble.  Hun 
dreds  of  the  men  own  their  houses  and  we'll 
go  down  together." 

"Do  you  think  the  men  want  to  come 
back?"  she  asked. 

"I  know  they  do,  if  the  Central  Union 
would  let  them;  but  those  fellows  think  that 
by  ruining  us  they  can  help  the  Lunderville 
men." 

All  that  night  Elinor  sat  by  her  window; 
her  head  ached  and  she  could  not  sleep. 
The  next  morning  she  telephoned  to  Lun 
derville,  where  the  Union  had  its  office:  "I 
want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Morgan."  (Morgan 
was  Secretary  of  the  Union).  When  he 
came  to  the  telephone,  she  said:  "  This  is 


148  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Mrs.  John  Gilroy.     I  want  to  see  you.     I 
want  to  see  you  privately." 

Whatever  hesitation  he  felt  was  shown 
in  the  silence  that  preceded  his  answer. 
"  Very  well-^-shall  I  go  to  your  house?" 

"No;  come  to  the  west  gate  at  eight  this 
evening." 

There  was  another  silence  before  he  an 
swered.  "All  right." 

That  evening  she  left  her  husband  writing 
in  the  library  and  walked  out  bareheaded 
and  unwrapped  across  the  firm  snow  under 
the  great  trees.  She  unlocked  the  gate  and 
stood  in  the  moonlight  face  to  face  with 
Morgan. 

She  poured  out  the  story  of  the  suffering 
of  the  hungry  children,  and  the  sick  women 
— of  her  husband's  goodness  and  anxiety, 
and  her  own  distress.  She  grew  more  ex 
cited  every  moment;  the  misery  of  weeks 
culminated  in  a  storm  of  tears.  She  begged 
him  to  help — to  tell  her  what  to  do.  He 
tried  gently  to  quiet  her,  and  asked  a  few 
questions  about  Gilroy's  affairs — the  con- 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  149 

tracts  and  so  forth.  She  understood  neither 
questions  nor  answers,  but  she  knew  word 
for  word  what  her  husband  had  told  her. 
As  she  proceeded  the  charm  of  Morgan's 
presence  came  over  her  as  strongly  as  be 
fore.  It  warmed  her  into  something  like 
peace.  But  she  recognized,  distracted 
though  she  was,  that  he  had  forgotten  about 
her;  it  was  her  husband  of  whom  he  was 
thinking. 

"Oh,  why  couldn't  Jack  have  told  me 
this?"  he  said. 

"And  you  can  do  something  with  the 
men?" 

"No,  but  I  think  I  can  do  something  with 
the  Central  Committee.  At  any  rate,  I'll 
try.  Please  go  back  into  the  house,  Mrs. 
Gilroy." 

"And  when  shall  I  hear?"  she  persisted. 
"  Oh,  hurry,  or  I  shall  die!" 

"  If  I  have  anything  to  tell  you  I'll  come 
here  to-morrow  night  at  this  time." 

'  *  And  when  you  do, "  she  said,  excitedly, 


DOWN  OUR  WAY 


'  '  put  your  hand  up  on  the  high  ledge  there, 
and  you'll  find  the  gate  key." 

The  next  day  she  roamed  about  like  one 
distracted.  She  insisted  on  hearing  every 
particular  of  the  suffering  in  town.  She 
asked  her  husband  again  and  again  if  they 
would  really  be  absolutely  penniless.  And 
at  each  answer  she  laughed  to  herself.  '  '  It 
will  be  an  atonement  —  an  expiation." 

As  the  great  clock  at  the  works  struck 
eight  she  stood  on  the  snow  with  Morgan. 
"  Oh,  tell  me!"  she  said. 

"  It's  done.  Orders  will  be  sent  to-night 
to  the  men  to  go  back  to  work.  A  conces 
sion  about  piece  work  will  be  asked,  but 
it's  trifling." 

She  seized  both  his  hands.  "Oh,  thank 
God!"  she  said.  "And  noiv  they  all  may 
forgive  me!" 

But  at  the  instant  the  alarm  of  fire  rang 
out,  clamorous,  fierce.  A  light  rose  in  the 
sky. 

"It  is  the  east  shop!"  said  Morgan,  and 
he  rushed  away. 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  JfZ 

The  fire  was  stopped  before  much  harm 
was  done.  The  order  came.  In  the  morn 
ing  long  lines  of  men  walked  in  single  file 
into  each  shop,  giving  their  names  as  they 
passed  to  the  busy  timekeeper,  while  on 
the  streets  the  women  cried  and  laughed 
and  kissed  each  other. 

Gilroy  came  home  late.  * '  I  must  go 
right  over  to  see  father,"  he  said.  "I  am 
sorry  to  say,"  he  added,  "that  Morgan  is 
suspected  of  setting  the  shops  on  fire  last 
night  and  that  steps  are  being  taken  to  ar 
rest  him.  The  watchman  swears  he  saw 
him  come  out  of  the  shop  as  the  clock  struck 
eight." 

Elinor  sprang  to  her  feet. 

4 'Oh,  John,  he  didn't— he  didn't /"  Her 
husband  looked  at  her  curiously.  « <  My 
dear,  you  will  make  yourself  ill.  I  am 
sorry  I  can't  stay  with  you,  but  I  must  run 
now." 

She  hung  on  his  arm.  "John,  don't  let 
him  be  arrested;  he  wasn't  there — indeed 
he  wasn't!"  But  her  husband  was  gone. 


152  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

She  ran  out  into  the  grounds.  She  was 
almost  frantic.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  pis 
tol  shot;  then  shouts,  the  gate  was  unlocked 
and  Dick  Morgan  turned  into  the  grounds. 

He  staggered  away  from  her.  ' '  I  did  not 
mean  to  see  you,"  he  said — "I  ran  in  to 
get  away  from  that  gang.  That  scab  po 
liceman  tried  to  arrest  me — he  had  no  war 
rant.  He  struck  me,  he  shot  through  my 
arm.  I  knocked  him  down — I  guess  I  killed 
him.  I'll  get  no  justice.  If  I  can't  get 
away,  I  shall  be  locked  up  for  years." 

' « You  are  wounded,"  she  said — "bleeding. 
Go  into  that  room — that  one  there  on  the 
veranda,  and  I'll  lock  the  gate."  As  he 
passed  through  the  door,  a  policeman  tried 
the  gate,  others  following  him.  They 
pounded  and  shouted. 

A  crowd  of  frightened  servants  came. 
The  police  demanded  entrance  and  the  right 
to  go  through  the  house.  Mrs.  Gilroy  ad 
vanced.  "No  one  has  come  in,"  she  said. 
"  I've  been  here  for  an  hour." 

Then    she   heard  her   husband's    voice. 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  153 

"No,"  he  said.    "Get  on,  men — I've  been 
here  with  my  wife.     No  one  has  come  in." 

The  crowd  rushed  off.  Elinor  seized  her 
husband's  hand.  "Oh,  come,  come!"  She 
led  him  into  the  room  where  Morgan  lay 
senseless.  As  Gilroy  bent  over  to  lift  him 
he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled.  "Jack," 
he  said,  ' « I'm  tired — roll  over  and  let  me 
get  into  bed." 

Gilroy  sprang  to  the  door.  * '  Telephone 
for  a  doctor  to  come  here  instantly,"  he 
cried  to  a  passing  servant. 

The  doctor  came.  Elinor,  clinging  to  her 
husband,  left  the  room.  "Oh,  let  me  tell 
you,  Jack!"  she  said.  "Not  now,"  he  an 
swered,  gently. 

"Yes,  now!" 

She  told  him  with  sobs — then  with  defi 
ance — then  with  entreaties  and  wild  self- 
reproaches.  She  told  him  all — of  the  pic 
nic — the  McCoy  woman — the  newspaper. 
He  listened  with  as  calm  a  face  as  though 
he  sat  in  church  on  a  summer  morning.  At 
the  end  he  rose  and  walked  to  the  fire,  where 


154  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

he  stood  in  silence.  She  could  not  guess 
of  what  he  was  thinking.  She  was  past 
caring.  "  Well,  my  dear, "  he  said,  "  you've 
paid  pretty  fully  for  whatever  you  may  have 
done  that  was  wrong.  I'm  afraid  all  this 
will  make  you  ill.  Try  to  forget  as  soon  as 
possible. " 

The  doctor  appeared  at  the  door.  Gilroy 
turned  toward  him  with  a  question.  ' «  He's 
been  shot  through  an  artery  in  the  arm," 
the  doctor  responded.  "I'm  afraid  he  will 
hardly  recover.'' 

The  young  man  spoke  to  his  wife  hastily: 
"Ring  for  somebody  to  help  you  to  bed, 
my  dear.  I  must  stay  with  Dick." 

Outside  of  the  door  the  doctor  asked  who 
was  to  blame  for  Morgan's  wound. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  young  man;  "I 
don't  know  who's  to  blame  for  that  or  for 
anything!" 

Elinor  looked  after  her  husband  with  be 
wildered  eyes.  She  was  no  longer  crushed 
and  repentant.  She  suddenly  saw  the  truth 
which,  later,  was  often  absent  from  her 


A  CONFLICT  OF  RIGHTS  155 

mind,  but  never  quite  forgotten:  that  no 
two  human  beings  can  ever  be  absolutely 
clear  to  each  other. 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT 


THE  MORNINGSTAR    ELOPE 
MENT 

THE  sky  was  so  brilliant,  and  the  lake  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  such  a  glowing  mass 
of  copper  and  violet,  that  it  seemed  for  the 
moment  strange  that  the  men  who  were 
coming  up  the  road  should  show  in  the  twi 
light  only  as  dark  shapes.  From  the  kitchen 
windows  the  lights  shone  down  with  cheer 
ful  promise  of  supper.  The  air  was  chilly, 
but  the  dusty  path  gave  out  a  sort  of  sweet- 
smelling  warmth.  There  was  a  coziness 
about  the  close  shut  scene;  the  fishermen, 
laughing  and  singing,  evidently  felt  some 
thing  of  it. 

The  owner  of  the  house  came  ahead  of 
the  others;  he  carried  a  great  basket  of  fish. 
As  he  strode  toward  the  door  Lon  Bunker, 
the  hired  man,  stopped  him. 
159 


DOWN  OUR  WAY 

"  Better  not  go  in  there,  Abe,"  he  said. 
" She's  on  her  ear  again." 

*  'What  in  thunder's  the  matter  with  her?" 
shouted  Abe.  He  spoke  with  the  anticipa 
tory  violence  of  a  man  who  is  trying  to  work 
himself  into  a  defensive  rage. 

"She's  jawin'  about  them  town  fellers 
bein'  late  for  supper,  and  I  reckon  she's  mad 
about  your  goin'  fishin'  with  'em  all  day," 
said  Lon. 

"Well  I  'low  to  run  this  house  myself," 
said  Abe,  with  an  emphasis  intended  to 
penetrate  the  door.  "The  women  round 
here  got  to  do  the  way  /  say — or  I'll  make 
'em!" 

The  door  was  suddenly  opened;  Mrs. 
Morningstar  threw  herself  out  with  a  fury 
that  made  even  Lon  quail.  ' '  Say  that  again, 
will  you!  Just  say  that  again!  You  das- 
sent,  you  know  you  dassent!  You  are  going 
to  run  this  house,  are  you?  Well,  you  can 
just  do  it!  I  got  to  do  what  you  want,  have 
I?  You  just  better  try  it!  I  tell  you  I've 
worked  as  long  as  I'm  going  to  for  you.  I 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT      l6l 

ain't  going  to  work  for  no  more  tramps  like 
you!  You  can  get  your  own  supper,  or  go 
without.  I'm  tired.  I've  been  up  since 
four  o'clock  this  morning,  working  like  a 
dog,  and  I'm  going  to  stop.  And  you  das- 
sent  say  a  word — and  you  know  it  — Abe 
Morningstar!" 

The  fishermen  filed  around  the  house  to 
wash  their  hands  before  supper.  They 
were  a  party  of  estimable  gentlemen  from  a 
neighboring  city,  who,  when  twice  a  year 
they  came  to  the  lake  to  fish,  lodged  at 
the  Morningstars'.  Mrs.  Morningstar  had 
known  them  all  for  several  years;  all  but 
one  man,  who  had  only  joined  them  to-day. 
She  found  them  profitable  guests,  and  would 
have  been  sorry  to  lose  them.  Neverthe 
less  she  scolded,  and  they  kept  out  of  her 
way,  and  pitied  Abe. 

They  came  into  supper  hungry  and  noisy. 
They  did  not  notice  her  at  all.  She  was 
wretchedly  tired;  she  knew  what  the  meal 
would  be — a  conversation  full  of  references 
to  things  which  she  knew  nothing  of,  and 


1 62  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

of  jokes  that  she  could  not  understand. 
She  felt  with  a  sort  of  dumb  bitterness  that 
the  gentlemen  were  cruel  to  her.  She  knew 
that  she  could  in  some  circumstances  have 
claimed  their  respect,  have  held  their  in 
terest,  but  they  never  gave  her  a  chance. 
They  paid  her  no  more  attention  than  if 
she  had  been  a  block  of  wood.  The  very 
supper  to  which  they  were  seating  them 
selves,  poor  as  it  seemed  to  these  men,  was, 
with  its  two  kinds  of  cake  and  its  napkins 
folded  in  the  glasses,  the  result  of  tremen 
dous  effort  on  her  part.  But  they  did  not 
even  recognize  that  she  had  taken  great 
pains;  to  pay  their  bill  and  get  out  of  her 
way  was  apparently  all  they  thought  neces 
sary. 

To-night  the  new  man,  Mr.  Vawter,  was 
the  center  of  the  group.  Mrs.  Morningstar 
knew  all  about  him.  He  was  the  one  who  was 
always  desired.  Half  a  dozen  times  she 
had  seen  everybody  elated  at  the  prospect 
of  his  joining  them,  and  depressed  when 
word  arrived  that  he  could  not  come.  She 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       163 

hated  them  all,  but  she  hated  him  the  most 
of  all,  because  they  seemed  so  fond  of  him. 
She  looked  sidewise  at  him.  ' '  Mighty  sick- 
looking  chap  to  make  all  that  fuss  over!" 
she  said  to  herself.  Indeed  his  appearance 
was  not  impressive.  He  was  slight  and 
would  have  seemed  undersized  but  for  his 
erect  military  carriage.  His  hair  was  thin, 
he  had  a  funny  little  beard,  a  sallow  skin, 
and  very  bright  twinkling  blue  eyes.  She 
knew  that  he  was  what  she  called  "rich," 
and  she  was  surprised  at  the  plainness  of 
his  dress  and  manner.  He  had  been  brought 
up  on  a  farm,  and  fell  easily  into  the  kind 
of  speech  with  which  she  was  most  familiar; 
this  made  him  seem  less  important  than  the 
others,  with  their  crisp  citified  pronuncia 
tion.  She  wondered  at  the  consideration 
in  which  they  held  him. 

They  seated  themselves.  Vawter  looked 
about  him  with  concern.  "  See  here!"  he 
cried  out  cheerfully;  "where's  Miz  Morn- 
ingstar  going  to  sit?  I  got  her  place." 

There  was  no  answer,     Lon  Bunker  tit- 


1 64  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

tered.  Tilly,  the  girl  who  had  come  in  to 
help,  tossed  her  head.  "/  can't  fry  the 
victuals  and  hand  'em,  too!" 

4 'Of  course  you  can't!  Of  course T  said 
Vawter,  with  ready  sympathy.  ' ( George!" 
he  said,  addressing  the  Morningstars'  son, 
a  hulking  boy  of  fifteen,  who  had  been  row 
ing  Vawter's  boat  that  day—' '  George,  you 
suffering  lamb  you,  you  just  hustle  those 
cakes  along  quick's  Tilly  gets  'em  fried- 
d'ye  hear,  son?  Miz  Morningstar,  you  sit 
right  down  by  Abe.  I'm  used  to  having 
ladies  at  the  table.  I  guess  this  crowd's 
pretty  rough,"  he  added,  pensively. 

Mrs.  Morningstar's  face  lost  some  of  its 
grimness.  She  seated  herself  with  a  little 
offishness;  she  was  pretty  cross  still. 

The  talk  was  not  addressed  to  her,  but 
she  could  understand  the  most  of  it.  When 
a  reference  was  made  to  something  that  had 
happened  in  town,  or  on  the  last  fishing 
journey,  Vawter  demanded  an  explanation 
with  cheerful  persistence.  They  all  seemed 
pleasanter  than  before. 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       165 

The  old  man  of  the  party,  General  Har 
bison,  told  in  his  hoarse,  wheezy  voice  a 
story  of  Vawter  in  which  he  took  much  de 
light,  and  which  evidently  he  had  often  told 
before.  "That  youngster  was  the  pet  of 
the  whole  brigade,"  he  said,  affectionately. 
Mrs.  Morningstar  looked  at  the  stranger 
with  quickened  interest.  She  had  been  to 
Laporte  in  her  youth,  to  see  a  company 
start  off  to  the  War.  The  memory  of  it 
came  back  to  her.  It  was  a  day  of  music, 
and  banners,  and  gay  uniforms,  and  tender 
partings.  It  was  the  one  heroic  recollec 
tion  of  her  life. 

They  spoke  of  the  soldiers'  reunions  and 
campfires  at  which  some  of  the  company 
had  recently  been  present.  "Tell  you 
what,  Vawter,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "when 
you  got  onto  the  tie  between  old  comrades 
the  other  night  it  was  just  great.  I  pretty 
near  broke  down!" 

Vawter  looked  embarrassed  at  the  talk 
about  himself.  ' '  You  know  Barney  Shee- 
han?"  he  said.  "Well,  some  of  us  went 


1 66  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

up  the  other  night  to  hear  him  address  the 
United  Irishmen.  I  saw  him  as  we  came 
out — he  was  pretty  full.  '  Mr.  Vawter,'  he 
said,  '  I'm  not  wishful  to  be  egotistical,  but  I 
will  say,  sorr,  that  whin  I  spake  on  the  sub 
ject  of  brotherly  love  I  find  myself  spaking 
wid  great  aise! '  I  guess  I'm  like  Barney." 

There  was  much  boyish  fun-making.  In 
his  deprecating  sweet  voice  Vawter  rebuked 
the  company  for  their  disorderly  mirth. 
Mrs.  Morningstar  brightened  up  and  sup 
ported  him.  He  declared  himself  flattered 
by  her  concurrence,  and  put  on,  in  address 
ing  her,  a  ceremonious  manner  brought,  per 
haps,  from  a  residence  of  some  years  in 
Georgia. 

"Miz  Morningstar,  Madam!  Nothing 
could  give  me  mo'  playsu'  then  to  pa'take 
of  some  pie — pa'ticuly  such  elegunt  and 
temptin'  pie  as  the  pie  I  see  befo'  me.  But 
I  am  sho',  madam,  that  the  enjoyment  I 
would  thereby  confer  upon  myself  would  be 
annulled  by  the  thought  of  the  pain  which 
so  tende'  hahted  a  lady  would  experience  at 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       167 

the  spectacle  of  my  subsequent  and  uncon 
trollable  anguish!" 

"  Sir,"  she  responded  with  much  show  of 
dignity,  "my  pie  is  less  important  than 
your  well-being." 

Tilly  giggled  at  the  cooking-stove.  George, 
on  his  way  with  the  batter  cakes,  laughed  so 
that  once  he  had  to  sit  down  plate  in  hand. 

Vawter  looked  at  him  pensively. 
"  George,  you  put  me  in  mind  of  a  steam 
boat  I  once  met  with  up  on  the  Miss'sippi. 
When  she  was  going  she  couldn't  toot — and 
when  she  was  tooting  she  couldn't  go!"  He 
went  on  gloomily:  "She  afterward  bust!" 

The  meal  was  over  and  the  men  began  to 
move  toward  the  front  porch.  ' '  Have  a 
cigar,  Vawter?"  "Yes,  thank  you,"  he  an 
swered,  * '  but  let's  stay  here  and  red  up. 
When  I'm  camping  out  I  don't  cut  off  the 
very  first  night,  and  leave  the  cook  to  wash 
the  dishes.  Give  me  a  napern,  please!" 

Abe  bestirred  himself  and  hunted  the 
broom.  "  I'll  brush  up  the  crumbs.  I've  got 
some  style  about  me,  too!" 


1 68  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

The  work  was  soon  done;  they  drew  their 
chairs  around  the  stove — the  night  was 
frosty.  The  little  Morningstar  girl  had 
watched  Vawter  with  fascinated  eyes.  She 
came  to  his  side  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  Vawter  drew  her  to  him.  ' '  George, 
honey,"  he  said,  looking  over  his  shoulder 
at  Mrs.  Morningstar,  who  was  fidgeting 
about  in  the  background,  "  give  your  mother 
that  chair  and  come  sit  on  my  other  knee!" 

Little  Myrtie  whispered  something,  and 
then  said  it  out  in  her  shrill  little  voice: 
< 'Mammy's  got  a  fiddle  on  top  shelf!" 

Abe  explained,  "Loretty's  had  it  since 
she  was  a  girl.  Bought  it  with  egg  money 
and  learned  herself.  She  ain't  played  much 
late  years!" 

' '  I  guess  I'd  have  more  time  to  play  if 
you  had  less ! ' '  she  said.  But  nobody  noticed 
her  pettishness.  They  all  begged;  the  fid 
dle  was  brought  out;  Abe  looked  anxiously 
at  the  guests  to  see  how  they  were  taking  it. 
' '  I  reckon  they'll  all  make  fun  of  your  play 
ing,"  he  said,  not  unkindly. 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       169 

She  played  better  than  they  had  expected, 
and  they  praised  her  perhaps  more  than  she 
deserved.  As  she  began  to  feel  at  ease  her 
black  eyes  shone,  she  threw  her  head  back, 
and  swung  to  and  fro  in  accord  with  the 
music,  smiling  brightly.  Abe,  looking  at 
her,  remembered  one  Sunday  afternoon 
when  he  was  courting  her,  and  met  her  com 
ing  through  the  meadow.  He  had  thought 
she  looked  like  a  quail,  bright-eyed  and 
graceful.  After  she  had  played  a  while  they 
all  sang  together: — "The  Sweet  Bye  and 
Bye,"  and  "We're  Tenting  To-night  on  the 
Old  Camp  Ground,"  and  "Lorena." 

They  sang,  they  told  conundrums,  they 
even  danced.  The  General  Manager  of  the 
Lake  Side  System  instructed  George  in  the 
two-step.  Price,  the  handsome  and  cynical 
editor  and  dramatic  critic,  gallantly  led  Abe 
down  the  center  in  the  Virginia  reel. 

It  was  a  time  of  kindness,  and  wit,  and 
happy  laughter.  The  humor  of  Vawter  was 
not  only  keen  and  diverting — it  was,  as  Abe 
thought,  '  *  friendly. "  Everything  about 


170  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

him  was  warm  and  alive.  He  had  the  act 
or's  art,  the  orator's  charm. 

Mrs.  Morningstar,  looking  at  him  now, 
wondered  that  she  could  have  thought  him 
plain.  She  noticed  the  neat  freshness  of 
his  rough  surfaced  clothes — they  seemed 
different  from  other  men's  garments;  and  on 
one  of  his  slender  hands  he  wore  a  splendid 
dazzling  ring. 

She  was  lifted  out  of  herself,  she  walked 
on  air.  The  music,  the  wit,  the  courtesy, 
were  like  some  grand  dream.  It  was  the 
ater,  society,  literature,  opera,  all  in  one. 

They  did  not  separate  till  midnight.  As 
the  men  were  going  to  bed  upstairs  Wemys 
said,  "Who  would  have  thought  that  that 
woman  could  be  so  nice?  I  took  her  for  a 
regular  wildcat." 

Vawter  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  cot,  con 
templating  the  sole  of  his  shoe.  "Well," 
he  said,  "you  know  my  wife? — no,  she 
could  not  be  anything  but  an  angel  in  any 
circumstances;  but  if  I  had  to  milk  eight 
cows,  and  cook  for  the  hands,  and  keep 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       1 71 

boarders,  I'd  be  something  of  a  wildcat  my 
self!" 

The  next  afternoon  there  was  a  clatter 
of  preparation.  They  were  departing. 
Loretta  Morningstar  helped  everybody;  she 
watched  the  packing  of  the  bass  in  big  boxes 
of  ice;  she  hunted  for  the  lost  rubber  boot. 
Her  calico  dress  was  fresh  and  starchy;  over 
her  head  a  red  shawl  was  tied,  not  unbe 
comingly.  Her  sullenness  had  vanished; 
they  were  all  good  friends.  Vawter  bade 
her  good-bye  with  simple  courtesy,  hat  in 
hand.  "Mrs.  Morningstar,  I  thank  you  for 
your  kindness  to  all  of  us.  I  hope  you  will 
be  well  and  happy  till  we  see  you  again." 

As  he  was  about  to  step  into  the  wagon 
he  looked  back  at  her  standing  in  the  door 
alone.  Something  about  her  moved  his 
heart.  He  hurried  back.  4<  Mrs.  Morning- 
star — I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you — 
I  don't  suppose  I  ever  can,  but  if  I  can  I 
will.  Remember  that!" 

The  wagon  vanished  over  the  top  of  the 
hill.  She  turned  into  the  house.  She  was 


172  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

not  lonely,  she  hardly  missed  them — there 
was  so  much  for  her  to  think  of. 

It  was  late  in  October  when  the  fisher 
men  went  home.  Only  a  few  weeks  after 
that  the  Morningstar  family  woke  one  morn 
ing  to  find  the  earth  covered  with  snow  and 
the  pump  frozen.  It  was  an  early  winter 
and  a  cold  one.  The  road  was  obliterated 
by  snow  drifts;  not  a  neighbor  came  in  for 
weeks.  Abe  slouched  his  way  a  mile  and 
a  half  up  the  hill  to  the  store  every  day, 
and  came  home  only  at  dark.  He  had  no 
news  to  tell;  if  he  had  had  any  he  could 
not  have  told  it. 

Loretta  looked  about  the  room  sometimes 
with  a  feeling  that  everything  was  unreal. 
Here,  on  this  very  seam  of  the  carpet,  Vaw- 
ter's  chair  had  stood.  Over  there  was  the 
braided  rug  that  Price  rolled  up  when  they 
began  to  dance.  It  was  the  same,  but  life 
less;  it  was  revolting,  like  a  dead  thing. 

Behind  the  house  a  little  path  had  been 
made  to  the  barn.  She  hurried  along  it 
half  a  dozen  times  a  day  on  her  way  to  milk, 


THE  MORNINGS! AR  ELOPEMENT       173 

or  to  feed  the  chickens.  Around  the  kitchen 
door  were  untidy  heaps  of  frozen  ashes; 
here  and  there  the  white  surface  was  de 
filed  by  coffee  grounds  and  egg  shells.  The 
strata  of  potato  peelings  and  the  like  that 
kind  nature  had  covered  from  time  to  time 
with  fresh  snow  cropped  out  in  some  places 
with  sickening  insistence.  Loretta  had  no 
time  to  look  beyond  at  the  sleeping  fields, 
the  tender  curves  of  down-swathed  hills, 
the  glittering  amethyst  of  the  frozen  lake. 

The  steps  that  led  from  the  kitchen  door 
into  the  back  yard  were  slippery  with  ice; 
besides  that  they  were  broken.  Abe  had 
promised  months  before  to  nail  them  into 
place.  His  wife  sometimes  at  night  re 
minded  him  bitterly  of  his  neglect.  "I'm 
sorry  I  didn't  do  it  before,"  he  thought, 
"but  I  won't  do  it  now  till  she  stops  her 
jawin'." 

Late  one  afternoon  as  Loretta  put  her 
foot  on  the  icy  step  the  board  slipped  from 
its  insecure  fastening.  She  had  a  milk 
bucket  in  each  hand  and  could  not  save 


174  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

herself.  As  she  lay  on  the  frozen  ground 
she  thought  her  ankle  was  broken.  She 
could  not  move;  she  had  moments  of  un 
consciousness  and  periods  of  agonizing  pain. 
She  did  not  cry,  she  did  not  pray.  Her 
whole  being  was  swept  with  a  torrent  of 
rage  and  despair.  As  she  lay  there  even 
ing  came  on;  the  sky  showed  lavish  glory, 
splendor  piled  itself  on  splendor,  the  snow- 
covered  earth  reflected  the  tints  above,  the 
stars  throbbed  in  burning  blue.  Abe,  com 
ing  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  found 
his  wife  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  unconscious 
and  half  frozen. 

Her  ankle  was  not  broken,  but  badly 
sprained ;  she  was  quite  helpless.  For  weeks 
she  lay  watching,  with  dark  inscrutable 
eyes,  Abe's  clumsy  attempts  at  cleaning  and 
cooking.  At  first  he  was  afraid  of  her,  but 
she  said  nothing.  She  was,  as  she  would 
have  said,  "  studying. "  As  she  grew  better 
she  seemed  to  have  come  to  a  conclusion — 
or  to  have  reached  an  end  in  her  deliberation. 
She  was  calmer  than  before.  Abe  cou!4 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       175 

not  understand.  He  made  piteous  efforts 
to  entertain  her.  He  would  have  been  glad 
even  to  see  her  angry. 

One  night  as  she  was  beginning  to  move 
about  he  spoke  to  her;  he  could  keep  silence 
no  longer.  "Loretty,"  he  said,  but  he 
could  not  find  words  for  his  thought — "Lo- 
retty,  don't  take  on  so!"  She  heard  him  as 
one  listens  absently  to  a  child. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  the  store — he 
felt  the  need  of  counsel.  Old  Van  Horn 
had  had  three  wives  and  might  be  deemed 
an  authority.  Abe  turned  on  him  his  honest 
blue  eyes,  heavy  with  trouble. 

' '  If  a  sick  person's  extry  quiet  and  pa 
tient  do  you  'low  it's  a  sign  they  ain't  goin' 
to  get  well?" 

"Man  or  woman?"  asked  old  Van  Horn. 

"Woman,"  answered  Abe. 

Old  Van  Horn  spoke  with  rustic  candor. 
"  Well,  Abe,  if  it's  your  Loretty,  and  she 
ain't  talking,  she'll  die  certain. " 

But  Mrs.  Morningstar  was  almost  well 
the  next  week  when  the  huckster  stopped 


176  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

to  trade  with  her  for  butter  and  eggs.  She 
gave  him  privately  a  letter  to  mail  for  her 
in  Laporte. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vawter  were  at  a  dinner 
party  one  evening  in  January.  Price,  the 
editor,  was  there,  and  Wemys  and  General 
Harbison's  son  Richard,  and  others  of  the 
fishing  party.  Young  Harbison  sat  next  to 
Mrs.  Vawter.  In  a  pause  her  husband 
heard  the  young  man  say,  * '  I  wonder  if  Mr. 
Vawter  confessed  to  you  the  flirtation  he 
had  up  at  the  lake  with  Mrs.  Morningstar?" 

She  answered  him  lightly;  he  persisted, 
"Oh  ask  any  of  them.  They'll  all  tell 
you!" 

She  smiled  indulgently.  The  young  man's 
face  flushed;  it  came  to  him,  he  could  not 
tell  how,  that  she  thought  him  a  little  rude. 
Yet  she  was  kinder  than  ever;  Vawter, 
watching  her,  thought  as  he  had  thought 
before,  '  *  She  is  the  best  bred  woman  in  the 
world,  as  she  is  the  sweetest. " 

He  looked  at  her  as  a  stranger  might 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT      177 

have  looked;  he  saw  her  radiant  face,  her 
round  throat  encircled  with  diamonds,  the 
low  bodice  of  her  white  gown  sable-edged 
and  jewel-pinned.  He  recalled  the  woman 
up  in  the  country — her  sharp  tongue,  her 
wistful  eyes,  her  poor  little  red  shawl.  "  I 
wish  Judith  understood!"  he  thought.  But 
he  knew  that  she  would  never  understand; 
he  knew  another  thing  too — that,  although 
she  was  the  most  sympathetic  of  wives,  she 
sometimes  felt  that  he  made  himself  a  little 
common. 

The  next  morning  Vawter  sat  in  his  pri 
vate  office.  A  clerk  brought  to  him  his 
personal  mail.  As  he  read  his  letters  he 
uttered  an  exclamation  that  made  his  sec 
retary  turn  to  him.  "  You  may  go  into  the 
other  room,  Mr.  Holliday,"  he  said.  "When 
I  want  you  I'll  ring." 

Left  alone  he  read  again  the  letter  he 
held  in  his  hand: 

4 '  Mr.  Vawter,  respected  friend:  I  write 
this  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  got  so 
that  I  can't  live  here  any  longer,  and  I 

12 


178  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  have  got  to 
leave,  and  remembering  your  promise,  I 
write  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  leave  Abe 
for  good.  He  will  be  in  Laporte  a  week 
from  Monday,  and  I  can  get  away  and  will 
go  to  your  town,  so  please  meet  me  at  the 
train  and  tell  me  what  to  do.  So  no  more 
at  present  from  yours  truly, 

LORETTA  MORNINGSTAR. 

The  situation  was  bad  enough  at  first,  but 
it  seemed  worse  the  more  he  thought  about 
it.  He  stepped  to  the  door.  "  Telephone 
for  my  horse;  I'm  going  to  drive." 

Out  on  the  deserted  boulevard  he  tried  to 
get  a  clearer  view  of  the  case,  but  all  that 
he  could  think  of  was  that  a  married  woman, 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  world, 
was  about  to  leave  her  husband,  and  that, 
perhaps,  as  the  result  of  something  like  a 
suggestion  of  his  own.  The  wind  in  his 
face  was  icy,  but  he  broke  into  a  perspira 
tion  as  he  thought  of  the  obvious  and  in 
evitable  criticism  to  which  his  own  thought 
less  impulsiveness  would  expose  him.  He 
did  not  dare  to  name  his  wife  even  in  his 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       179 

thoughts,  but  he  could  feel  the  way  in  which 
any  woman  might  say,  l  *  Were  you  not  a  little 
rash?  Why  need  you  have  taken  on  your 
self  the  responsibility  of  a  declared  sym 
pathy?" 

"It's  no  use  going  over  and  over  it  by 
myself,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I  have  got  to 
ask  somebody!" 

Of  the  men  of  the  fishing  party  to  whom 
he  might  go  for  advice,  there  was  General 
Harbison,  whose  age  and  high  character 
might  be  supposed  particularly  to  qualify 
him;  and  there  was  Wemys,  who,  perhaps, 
was  Vawter's  closest  friend. 

1 «  Harbison's  all  right,  he'd  talk  it  over 
fully  and  wisely — but  he'd  continue  talking 
it  over  fully  and  wisely  for  the  next  twenty 
years. 

"And  Wemys — well,  hed  be  all  right 
after  he  once  got  down  to  it,  but  he'd  want 
to  philosophize  round  and  round  creation 
before  he  started  in  on  the  subject — like  a 
writing-master  when  he's  going  to  make  a 
scroll  eagle.  And  Price — he's  out  of  the 


l8o  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

question,  I  suppose.  For  one  thing,  he's 
too  young;  and  for  another,  from  what  the 
boys  say,  he's  had  a  little  too  much  ex 
perience  already.  I  reckon  I  got  to  tell 
Wemys." 

He  stopped  in  front  of  a  tall  building 
which  was  almost  in  the  center  of  a  whirl 
pool  of  commercial  activity.  In  the  eleva 
tor  with  him  as  he  went  up  were  a  printer, 
carrying  long  strips  of  proof  in  his  hands, 
and  some  young  men  who  had  that  look  of 
sodden  cleanliness  that  belongs  to  going  to 
bed  at  four  in  the  morning,  and  bath  and 
breakfast  at  noon. 

"Tell  Mr.  Price  that  Mr.  Vawter  wants  to 
see  him."  As  he  waited  he  said  to  himself, 
' '  I  knew  all  along  it  was  Price  I  was  com 
ing  to,  and  yet  I  made  up  reasons  against 
Wemys  and  poor  old  Harbison.  I've  got  to 
watch  out— that  kind  of  thing  isn't  just 
straight." 

In  his  own  room,  and  surrounded  by 
the  signs  of  his  work,  there  was  a  force 
about  Price  that  was  not  so  evident  else- 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT      iBl 

where.  There  was  something  comforting, 
too,  in  the  quick  perception  that  made  him 
say  at  once  to  someone  outside  of  the  door, 
"Don't  let  anybody  in." 

He  listened  gravely  with  a  kind  and  con 
centrated  interest  that  had  the  appearance 
of  being  an  interest  diverted  for  the  time 
from  his  own  affairs.  Vawter  gave  him 
Loretta's  letter.  It  hurt  him  to  do  it ;  there 
was  a  sort  of  violation  of  confidence  in  the 
act.  A  fear  took  him  that  Price  might 
laugh.  But  Price  read  it  through  slowly, 
looking  back  at  the  date,  with  a  face  as  un 
changing  as  if  he  had  been  considering  a 
poker  hand. 

4 'Poor  woman,  I  suppose  it's  been  pretty 
hard  on  her  this  winter,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment  or  two.  "Yes,"  said  Vawter, 
"and  that's  one  of  the  things  that  breaks 
me  all  up.  You  see  I  know  all  about  it. 
Our  folks  were  pretty  well  oft,  as  farmers  go, 
in  Indiana,  but  all  the  same  I  know  the  life 
is  awful  for  the  women." 

' '  She'd  be  nervous  and  cross,  and  then 


182  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Abe  would  get  grumpy,"  suggested  the 
other. 

4 'Yes,  I  reckon  he'd  act  like  a  brute," 
Vawter  answered — "and  yet  Abe's  a  mighty 
good-humored  fellow  by  nature." 

4 'He  is,  by  nature;  but  the  good  humor 
that's  going  to  redeem  a  man  he's  got  to 
work  for." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  exactly  under 
stand  what  you  mean  by  that,  but  anyhow 
Abe's  a  good  man  according  to  his  lights, 
and  hardly  deserves  that  his  home  should 
be  broken  up!  You  feel  that?" 

Price  responded  absently,  looking  out  of 
the  window  as  he  spoke.  Vawter  proceeded 
with  some  heat: 

"Don't  we  both  know  that?  Of  course 
she  can't  come— 

' '  Certainly  not. " 

* '  But  what  kind  of  a  man  am  I?  Here 
I  am  plotting  to  get  out  of  keeping  my 
promise  to  her.  I  never  in  my  life  before 
went  back  on  a  creature  that  trusted  me, 
It's  awful  rough!" 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       183 

< » That's  so, "  said  Price.  ( « There's  some 
times  some  comfort  in  finding  out  how  far 
you're  to  blame,  and  taking  it  out  on  your 
self,  but  there  is  nothing  of  that  in  this,  to 
my  mind." 

4 'No,  I  can't  see  how  I  am  to  blame.  I 
was  sorry  for  her,  awfully  sorry,  as  I  am 
for  any  human  being  who  is  in  a  hard  place. 
I  said  so,  and  I  don't  take  it  back  either." 

1 '  Of  course  the  idea  that  you  would  be 
her  friend  made  her  think  it  possible  to 
leave  Abe." 

"I  reckon  so — I'm  not  going  to  blame  a 
woman  for  believing  what  I  tell  her,  am  I?" 

"The  result  is  pretty  embarrassing, "  said 
Price,  with  a  smile. 

<  '  I  suppose  it  is,  but  you  don't  think  I 
mind  about  myself,  do  you?  It's  her  I'm 
thinking  of — how  she'll  be  hurt,  and  lose 
confidence,  and  maybe  get  more  bitter.  It's 
like  slapping  a  child  that  holds  out  its  hands 
to  you." 

"I  see  that,"  said  Price.  "I  mean  I  can 
see  how  it  would  worry  you."  After  a  mo- 


184  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

ment's  silence  he  asked,  "Can't  you  write 
to  her?" 

"Write  to  her?  Good  land,  no!  Any 
body  who  chose  would  open  the  letter,  and 
if  it  got  out  that  she  had  ever  planned  to 
run  away  from  Abe  she'd  never  hear  the 
last  of  it.  You  don't  know  the  coarse  jokes, 
the  silly  repetitions — Say!  Maybe  I  could 
go  up  there  and  talk  her  out  of  it!" 

< '  I  guess  not, "  said  Price.  '  'A  man  doesn't 
travel  to  the  end  of  creation  in  the  dead  of 
winter,  and  then  go  fourteen  miles  by  wagon, 
just  to  make  an  afternoon  call." 

Vawter  rose.  "Well,  it's  something  to 
get  the  situation  clear  in  your  mind.  She 
mustn't  come,  that's  one  thing;  and  the 
other  is,  that  nobody  but  you  and  me  must 
ever  know  that  she  wanted  to  come.  That's 
as  far  as  I  can  go.  You  can't  help  me  be 
yond  that — nobody  can.  I've  got  to  hope 
for  a  leading." 

"Yes,  and  I  guess  you'll  get  it.  And, 
Vawter — please  remember  that  you  don't 
have  to  tell  me  what  you  may  decide  to  do. " 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       185 

At  the  door  Vawter  stopped.  * « I'd  like 
to  say  that  I  think  you've  been  pretty  nice 
about  a  thing  some  men  would  have  treated 
as  a  joke." 

'  *  Don't  mention  it, "  said  Price.  ' '  I  don't 
know  when  I've  enjoyed  anything  so  much 
as  seeing  the  way  I  took  it.  It  gave  me 
some  hope  for  myself." 

Later  at  his  office  Vawter  said  to  himself 
with  a  sigh,  "Well,  if  there  isn't  any  possi 
ble  way  out  of  a  thing,  I  reckon  all  I  can 
do  is  to  get  out  in  an  impossible  way."  He 
called  for  his  secretary  to  come  and  take 
down  a  letter.  "On  plain  paper,  please, 
Mr.  Holliday." 

The  letter  set  forth  that  it  had  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  the  writer  that  the  prop 
erty  of  Abraham  Morningstar  was  in  danger, 
that  great  harm  might  come  to  him  should 
he  be  absent  for  a  day,  that  he  ought  to  re 
main  closely  at  home  for  some  months,  and 
that  he  must  not  tell  anyone  he  had  received 
such  a  warning.  "And,  Mr.  Holliday,  you 
may  bring  it  to  me  to  sign."  As  he  put  it 


1 86  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

into  an  envelope  he  turned  pale  with  his 
horror  of  it.  "  Great  Caesar!  Have  7  gone 
into  the  White  Cap  business?  Am  I  the 
sort  of  man  that  sends  anonymous  letters?" 
That  night  his  little  daughter  clung  to 
him.  "Oh,  father,  how  good  you  are!" 
"Well,  honey,"  he  answered  with  grim 
amusement  at  his  own  distress,  "maybe 
I'm  good,  but  maybe  I'm  one  of  the  lowest 
creatures  known  to  society." 

Before  the  next  summer  the  fishermen 
built  a  pretty  clubhouse  of  their  own  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  Vawter  went  later  than 
the  others  and  was  welcomed  at  the  landing 
with  joyous  acclamations.  At  the  door  a 
spry  mulatto  hurried  forward  to  take  his 
bag  and  overcoat.  "You  Cunnel  Vawter, 
suh?"  He  looked  about  at  the  gentlemen 
in  expectation  of  the  guffaw  that  he  thought 
would  follow  his  next  words.  « '  Woman  up 
on  the  hill  where  we-all  gets  our  aigs  mighty 
keen  to  see  you,  suh!" 

Vawter's  steel-colored  eyes  rested  on  the 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       187 

negro  for  an  instant.  Then  he  spoke  even 
more  gently  than  was  usual  with  him.  *  'You 
mean  Mrs.  Morningstar?  As  soon  as  the 
steward  can  spare  you,  you  may  go  up  there 
and  tell  her  that  Mr.  Vawter  will  do  himself 
the  honor  of  calling  on  her  to-morrow 
morning." 

As  they  passed  on  into  the  house  young 
Harbison  lingered  in  the  hall.  * '  Look 
here,"  he  said  to  the  steward,  "that  nigger 
of  yours  is  just  a  little  too  fresh!" 

In  the  radiant  morning  Vawter,  trim  and 
soldierlike,  walked  toward  the  Morningstar 
house.  Flocks  of  little  yellow  butterflies 
flowered  the  road  along  which  he  went. 
Beyond  the  fields  the  lake  lay  blue  and 
sparkling.  At  intervals  the  song  of  a 
meadow  lark  rang  out.  He  felt  the  beauty 
of  it  all,  but  he  was  greatly  disturbed.  He 
could  not  guess  what  Mrs.  Morningstar's 
situation  might  be.  Had  Abe  suspected 
the  truth?  Had  Loretta  in  some  desperate 
moment  confessed  it?  She  might  be  more 
wretched  than  ever;  she  might  meet  him 


1 88  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

with  reproaches.  He  could  bear  her  anger, 
but  to  seem  to  be  false  to  one  who  had 
trusted  him,  was  a  thought  that  stung  him. 
He  went  over  it  all  again  with  a  sickening 
feeling  that  he  in  some  way  was  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  trouble. 

' '  I  have  meant  to  do  only  what  is  right. 
I  have  tried  to  walk  uprightly  before  God 
and  man,  and  I  guess  I  have  blundered  along 
like  one  of  these  wobbly-legged  calves!" 

Loretta  saw  him  approaching;  she  came 
hurriedly  out  of  the  door — the  house  was 
only  a  few  feet  from  the  roadside.  She 
took  no  time  for  greeting.  ' '  Some  of  the 
folks  are  in  the  kitchen.  Go  up  to  the  edge 
of  the  cornfield  and  wait  for  me." 

She  vanished  before  he  could  speak.  He 
walked  on  bewildered.  As  he  got  his  breath 
he  addressed  himself:  "Henry  Vawter, 
have  you  gone  crazy?  Are  you  waiting  at 
the  edge  of  the  cornfield  for  Abe  Morning- 
star's  wife?" 

She  appeared  almost  immediately;  her 
pink  sunbonnet  was  perched  on  the  top  of 
her  head;  she  looked  very  pretty, 


THE  MORNINGSTAR  ELOPEMENT       189 

1 '  I've  wanted  to  see  you  awful  bad — 
she  hesitated.     Vawter's  heart  sank. 

"I've  been  so — so  afraid  you  thought 
hard  of  my  not  coming  last  winter.  What's 
the  matter?"  she  asked,  as  the  man  drew  a 
quick  breath. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  ought  not  to  go  out  in 
the  sun  without  my  smelling  salts  and  para 
sol." 

She  laughed  and  went  on,  "You  see  it 
was  this  way;  I  really  did  lay  off  to  go,  but 
I  couldn't  seem  to  get  away  nohow.  After 
I  began  to  pick  up,  Abe  got  a  notion  he 
was  poorly,  and  he  took  to  settin'  round  the 
house,  and  after  he  was  converted  he  helped 
me  lots,  and  George  he  went  up  to  Valpa- 
raisy  to  clerk  in  his  uncle's  store,  and  Lon 
Bunker  got  married,  and  there  wasn't  no 
one  but  Abe  and  me  and  Myrtie,  and  I 
got  real  reconciled.  Fact  is,"  she  added, 
with  a  flash  of  youthful  gayety,  "time  I 
could  go  I  was  plum  out  of  notion  of  goin'!" 

"Well,  that's  a  heap  better,  ain't  it?" 
said  Vawter, 


19°  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

' '  Yes,  I  can  see  that  plenty  well  now — 
for  one  thing,  I  expect  I'd  'a'  had  a  hard  time 
earning  my  living  teaching  music."  She 
continued,  with  simple  confidence  in  his 
friendly  interest:  "I  get  a  good  deal  more 
time  to  play  now  than  I  did,  and  Abe  and 
me's  joined  the  Christian  Endeavors  at  our 
church,  and  we're  going  to  attend  the  enter 
tainments  the  Campbellites  are  gettin'  up. 
Looky  here!  You  won't  ever  let  on  to  Abe 
that  I  had  a  notion  of  leavin'  him?" 

"No,  indeed;  I  don't  even  let  it  on  to 
myself." 

That  evening  Wemys  said,  *  *  They  say 
Abe  got  converted  at  the  big  revival  this 
spring.  Vawter,  when  you  were  up  there 
this  morning  did  you  see  anything  of  the 
family  altar  that  exhorters  counsel  the 
brother  who  has  found  the  light  to  set  up?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Vawter  whimsically, 
"I  saw  it;  I  helped  shove  it  round  into 
place.  It's  just  a  plain,  ordinary,  home 
made,  medium-sized  altar." 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER 

WHEN  at  dinner  Dr.  Harmon  men 
tioned  a  sick  woman  whom  he  had 
seen  that  day  he  was  not  departing  from  his 
habit  of  professional  reticence;  it  was  not 
of  her  illness  that  he  spoke.  Her  name, 
Moore,  was  that  of  Mrs.  Harmon's  kins- 
people  in  Whitcomb  County.  She  and  her 
husband  were  from  that  part  of  the  State — 
there  might  be  some  connection. 

' '  I  guess  they  are  poor,  and  they  seem  to 
have  no  acquaintances.  It  might  be  a  kind 
thing  for  you  to  go  to  see  her,"  he  said,  re 
garding  Mrs.  Harmon  with  the  lack  of  confi 
dence  in  his  own  good  impulses  that  over 
comes  a  man  in  the  presence  of  his  wife. 

It  turned  out  there  was  no  relationship; 
but  when  Mrs.  Harmon  went  to  see  the 
sick  woman  she  was  so  much  pleased  with 
her  that  she  soon  went  again,  and  took 


194  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

some  pains  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
the  husband. 

' '  Mr.  Moore  and  his  wife  are  as  timid  and 
shy  as  two  gentle  animals,"  said  Mrs.  Har 
mon,  at  home.  "I do  not  see  how  they  can 
get  on  in  the  city." 

"As  to  that,"  said  the  doctor,  "they 
came  here  because  they  could  not  get  on  in 
the  country.  Moore  is  a  carpenter,  and  at 
present  there  are  not  many  lordly  mansions 
in  process  of  erection  on  the  farms  of  Whit- 
comb  County." 

"He  ought  to  be  a  farmer — that's  what 
Fm  going  to  be,"  said  little  Tom — "any 
how  in  maple  sugar  time." 

' '  Maybe  he  hadn't  enough  money  to  buy 
a  farm,  Tom,"  said  Miss  Amy.  "I'm going 
to  have  plenty  of  money,"  answered  the 
boy. 

The  doctor  continued :  '  'I  spoke  to  Moore's 
boss  about  him.  He  says  that  the  man 
will  always  be  able  to  earn  his  bread  and 
butter — he's  competent  and  industrious — 
but  that  he'll  never  get  on  much.  He  hasn't 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER  1 95 

enough  cheek  to  look  out  for  little  contracts 
or  to  ask  for  higher  wages." 

Mrs.  Harmon's  well-filled  satin  bodice 
creaked  as  she  sighed,  "Well,  it's  some 
thing  for  a  man  to  be  able  to  earn  his  bread 
and  butter." 

*  *  My  dear, "  said  the  doctor,  ' '  you  are, 
as  usual,  distinctly  right." 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Moore  was  well  she  let 
the  doctor's  wife  see  that  she  wanted  to  earn 
a  little  money  herself,  and  Mrs.  Harmon 
often  carried  to  her  small  bits  of  sewing — a 
lace  flounce  to  be  pieced,  some  frills  to  be 
hemstitched  for  Amy's  night  gowns.  The 
children,  Tom,  Nelly  and  the  two-year-old 
baby,  were  sometimes  in  the  carriage  with 
their  mother.  4 '  It  was  the  strangest  thing 
to  see  the  little  woman  brighten  up  at  the 
sight  of  the  babies,"  said  Mrs.  Harmon. 
"She  forgot  all  about  me.  I  left  them  with 
her  for  a  while.  When  I  went  back  for 
them  they  wailed  and  she  looked  so  wistful 
that  it  was  positively  touching. " 

It  was  the  desire  to  see  the  children  that 


196  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

first  drew  Mrs.  Moore,  in  spite  of  her  shyness, 
to  the  Harmons'  house.  Later  she  came 
often  and  sat  busy  at  her  sewing  in  the  wide 
upper  hall.  The  children  hung  round  her 
and  climbed  over  her,  but  she  never  seemed 
to  tire  of  them.  She  was  such  a  gentle, 
ladylike  little  creature,  that  all  the  family 
grew  fond  of  her  and  came  to  call  her,  as 
the  children  did,  "Cousin  Mary."  She  had 
beautiful  red  hair,  a  thin  skin,  and  mild, 
protuberant  blue  eyes.  Her  husband  was 
enough  like  her  to  be  her  brother.  When  the 
doctor  and  his  wife  went  off  on  short  trips, 
Mrs.  Moore  was  asked  to  stay  at  the  house 
with  Miss  Amy  and  the  little  ones.  At  such 
times  her  husband,  William,  came  to  dinner 
with  them.  He  sat  up  at  the  table,  shin- 
ingly  clean  and  very  well-behaved,  looking 
like  a  little  boy  who  has  been  asked  out  to 
tea.  When  one  of  the  children  said  any 
thing  bright  (and  the  Harmon  children  were 
generally  free  to  speak  their  minds),  Wil 
liam  and  his  wife  would  look  at  each  other 
in  silent  delight  and  admiration. 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER  197 

"I  wonder  how  they  manage  to  exist," 
said  Amy  (she  was  one  of  the  girls  who  are 
putting  into  the  work  of  improving  their 
minds  the  same  sort  of  energy  and  devo 
tion  that  their  grandmothers  gave  to  the 
business  of  saving  their  souls).  "They  seem 
never  to  have  anything  to  talk  about,  even 
to  each  other,  but  some  baby  that  they 
know." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Harmon,  "  they  have  a 
great  deal  to  interest  them.  They  read  the 
Bible  to  each  other  every  night,  and  they 
always  go  to  church. " 

They  not  only  went  to  church  on  Sun 
days,  but  to  prayer-meeting  on  Thursday 
nights.  They  were  as  regular  in  attend 
ance  at  these  meetings  and  as  little  noticed 
as  the  negro  janitor,  who  slept  quietly  in 
one  of  the  dusky  corners  that  surrounded 
the  illuminated  center  where  a  few  old  men 
and  women  and  one  fashionably  dressed  sis 
ter,  whose  husband  was  not  a  "professor," 
asked  each  other  once  a  week  why  the 
young  people  would  not  attend  prayer- 


IQ  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

meeting.     The  Moores  enjoyed  it  all  greatly. 

Once  William  made  a  joke.  His  wife 
complained  of  the  rain.  "Don't  you  re 
member,  Mary,"  he  said,  "that  Brother 
Taylor  said  that  if  there  was  one  thing  that 
more  than  another  was  sent  for  our  per 
sonal  reproof  and  correction,  it  was  the 
weather?  I  guess  you've  been  doing  some 
thing  naughty." 

When  this  jeu  d'esprit  was  reported  by 
Cousin  Mary  (who  had  a  modest  pride  in  it), 
Amy  fairly  turned  pale. 

"Oh,  what  barrenness!"  she  said  to  her 
mother,  later.  "Have  they  no  intellectual 
life?" 

"  I  never  have  observed,"  responded  Mrs. 
Harmon,  with  dignity,  "that  intellectual 
people  have  any  better  time  than  others  who 
make  less  pretensions.  Cousin  Mary  cer 
tainly  seems  as  happy  as  the  rest  of  you. " 

Miss  Amy  could  admit  a  truth  even  if  she 
did  not  approve  of  the  conclusion  to  be 
drawn  from  it.  She  saw  that  Cousin  Mary 
was  happy;  she  saw,  indeed,  that  she  was 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER  1 99 

not  only  happy,  but  in  a  sort  of  exaltation. 
Her  color  was  brighter  than  it  had  been; 
she  laughed  aloud  as  she  played  with  the 
children;  sometimes  when  she  thought  no 
one  could  hear  her  she  sang  aloud  as  she 
sat  at  her  sewing.  William,  also,  was 
changed.  Formerly  he  hardly  dared  answer 
when  Mrs.  Harmon  addressed  him;  now 
when  his  wife  came  in  the  morning  he 
escorted  her  to  the  front  door,  rang  the  bell 
bold  as  a  lion,  and  told  Mrs.  Harmon  not 
to  let  Mary  get  tired. 

In  the  autumn  and  winter  she  did  not 
come  often  to  the  Harmons'.  The  children 
were  taken  to  her  house  and  came  back 
noisy  and  happy,  bearing  little  homemade 
toys  that  she  and  William  had  contrived  for 
them. 

In  March  Cousin  Mary  gave  birth  to  a 
child  which  died  immediately.  From  the 
first  she  was  out  of  her  senses,  and  an  alarm 
ing  mania  developed.  She  was  violently  ill 
for  weeks.  During  this  time  her  husband 
worked  night  and  day  taking  care  of  her. 


200  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

His  toil  was  incredible;  he  went  through 
more  than  it  would  have  been  thought  could 
be  endured  by  the  stoutest  frame.  But  it 
could  not  be  permitted.  An  awful  day 
came  for  the  poor  little  man.  In  a  close 
carriage  with  Mrs.  Harmon  and  the  doctor 
he  took  his  wife,  tied  hand  and  foot,  to  the 
insane  asylum.  As  they  drew  near  the 
place  he  made  pitiful  attempts  to  smooth 
her  gown,  to  adjust  her  hat,  though  she 
struck  at  him.  *  *  Mary  is  always  so  tidy  and 
particular  about  her  looks,"  he  said. 

That  night  as  Amy  Harmon  in  her  ball 
room  finery  sat  with  her  parents  in  the 
library  waiting  for  the  carriage  that  was  to 
take  her  to  a  dance,  they  spoke  of  the  dis 
tress  of  the  day. 

''Why  has  it  happened?"  the  girl  asked 
of  her  father.  ' '  What  have  Cousin  Mary  and 
her  husband  ever  done  to  deserve  this  awful 
thing?"  She  spoke  with  the  bewildered  bit 
terness  of  one  who  for  the  first  time  finds 
her  question  cannot  be  answered. 

"We  must  trust  in  a  Providence  that  is 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER  2OI 

wiser  than  we  are,"  said  the  mother,  com 
fortably.  The  girl  still  looked  at  her  father. 

''Well,  Amy,  one  woman  in  so  many 
hundreds  goes  crazy.  Poor  Cousin  Mary 
drew  the  marked  ballot.  That  is  all.  You 
all  take  your  chance." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  'chance'  is!" 
she  exclaimed. 

' '  Neither  do  I, "  he  replied.  "  But  I  think 
it  is  a  segment  of  some  great  circle  of  the 
law." 

After  this  the  Harmons  saw  nothing  of 
Cousin  Mary's  husband.  He  crept  away 
like  some  wounded  animal  to  suffer  alone. 
Mrs.  Harmon  looked  for  him  at  church,  but 
he  was  seen  there  no  more.  She  drove  to 
the  little  house  and  found  it  locked.  A 
woman  stretched  her  neck  over  the  next 
fence  and  then  addressed  her: 

"You  ain't  acquainted  with  them  folks, 
are  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Harmon  responded;  "I 
know  them  very  well." 

The   neighbor  brightened    up   with   the 


202  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

pleasure  of  one  who  has  something  of  inter 
est  to  communicate.  "Well,  you  won't 
find  her  at  home;  she's  gone  crazy." 

"I  didn't  expect  to  see  Mrs.  Moore.  I 
wanted  to  find  out  something  about  Mr. 
Moore.  Do  you  know  if  he  is  well?" 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right,  I  reckon,  far's  that 
goes.  But  he  acts  mighty  curious.  He 
just  cooks  and  works  for  himself,  and  never 
speaks  to  a  soul.  Minute  his  work's  done 
he  puts  out  his  lamp.  But  if  he  don't  want 
to  be  friendly,  it's  no  difference  to  us!"  Her 
tone  indicated  advances  not  responded  to. 

The  resident  physicians  at  the  asylum 
sometimes  communicated  with  Dr.  Harmon 
about  Mrs.  Moore's  condition,  and  occasion 
ally,  when  William's  day's  work  was  done, 
he  came  to  the  house  to  ask  for  news.  In 
the  long  summer  evenings,  as  Miss  Amy 
sat  with  her  friends  on  the  wide  veranda, 
in  the  scent  of  the  lilies  that  came  up  from 
the  lawn  below,  she  often  saw  William's 
slight,  boyish  figure  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  that  edged  the  sidewalk — sometimes 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER          203 

when  the  doctor  was  delayed  he  stood  there 
for  two  or  three  hours.  And  when  the  doc 
tor  alighted  she  saw  the  face  of  the  young 
man  in  the  light  of  the  street  lamps  as  he 
came  forward.  It  was  wild  and  haggard 
and  unshaven.  But  sometimes,  after  long 
waiting,  when  William  heard  the  carriage 
wheels  coming,  he  stole  away  without  a 
word. 

"I  wonder  what  Mr.  Moore  does  with 
himself  on  Sundays?"  said  Mrs.  Harmon. 
1  ' I've  sent  to  his  house  several  times,  but 
he's  never  at  home. " 

' '  I  think  I  saw  him  one  Sunday, "  said  the 
doctor.  * '  I  was  driving  past  the  grounds  of 
the  asylum — six  miles  from  town,  you  know; 
— the  rain  was  coming  down  in  sheets.  A 
man  that  looked  like  him  was  lying  on  the 
grass  huddled  close  against  the  palings  that 
inclosed  the  grounds.  But  if  it  was  he, 
he  hid  his  face  so  that  I  might  not  recognize 
him." 

The  day  came  in  August  when  the  doctor 
had  good  news.  Cousin  Mary  was  improv- 


204  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

ing.  Then  word  came  that  William  might 
see  her  for  a  few  minutes.  He  took  hope 
immediately  and  was  ready  to  talk  to  Mrs. 
Harmon  about  what  he  might  cook  to  carry 
to  his  wife.  He  came  to  ask  advice  about 
a  flannel  dressing  gown.  He  began  to  make 
a  store  of  jelly  for  winter  consumption,  and 
he  even  tried  to  coax  a  few  late  flowers  to 
bloom  in  the  little  yard. 

In  the  autumn  Mary  was  discharged. 
Mrs.  Harmon  sent  flowers  to  the  house  to 
welcome  her  home,  and  they  all  made  every 
show  of  kindly  feeling.  But  they  spoke  of 
it  gravely  to  one  another. 

"  How  much  better  it  would  have  been  if 
she  had  died,"  said  Amy.  "  How  horrible 
for  her  to  drag  through  life,  knowing  she 
has  been  insane!" 

"Does  it  seem  so  to  you?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

"  How  could  it  seem  otherwise? — to  dis 
trust  one's  judgment — to  watch  each  whim 
with  trembling  horror — to  have  the  doubt 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER  205 

always  hanging  over  you.  It  would  drive 
me  mad  a  second  time!" 

4 'Probably  it  would,"  responded  her 
father;  "but  then  you  have  had  the  ad 
vantage  of  a  higher  education.  You,  I 
doubt  not,  know  much  about  alienism  and 
have  studied  something  of  diseases  of  the 
mind  and  will.  Cousin  Mary  has  not  had 
your  opportunities.  She  is  no  more  ashamed 
than  she  would  be  of  having  had  the  grip. 
It  was  bad,  it  is  over,  and  that  is  the  end 
of  it." 

"  But  her  husband!  won't  he  be  ashamed? 
Won't  he  trust  her  less?" 

' '  Oh,  I  never  said  William  was  a  gentle 
man.  I  dare  say  he'll  be  just  as  fond  of 
her  as  ever." 

"He  is  not  a  gentleman,  of  course,"  said 
Mrs.  Harmon,  severely.  "But  he  is  an 
earnest,  sincere  Christian,  and  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  run  him  down — and  you 
always  talking  the  way  you  do — 

The  reunited  pair  took  up  their  life  just 
•wliere  they  had  left  it.  They  were  at  church 


206  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

the  next  Sunday  perhaps  a  little  paler  than 
formerly,  but  looking  very  happy.  Cousin 
Mary  came  to  the  Harmons'  as  often  as  be 
fore.  They  tried  to  be  very  considerate; 
Mrs.  Harmon  and  Amy  often  sat  with  her 
while  she  sewed,  and  at  such  times  one  of 
them  would  read  aloud  from  some  book  that 
Cousin  Mary  might  find  diverting.  Amy 
talked  gayly  about  the  little  things  that  were 
happening,  taking  the  greatest  pains  to  be 
as  gentle  and  simple  in  her  talk  as  might  be. 
They  learned  afterward  that  Cousin  Mary 
regarded  these  hours  as  times  of  great  intel 
lectual  stimulus.  As  she  gained  confidence 
the  mother  and  daughter  used  the  tact  for 
which  they  were  distinguished  in  a  wide  cir 
cle  to  induce  her  to  talk  freely  to  them. 
One  day  she  told  them  of  her  experiences 
in  the  hospital.  She  spoke  quite  simply, 
with  no  show  of  feeling  or  self-pity,  or  the 
least  perception  that  there  might  be  any 
thing  in  the  situation  that  called  for  special 
sympathy.  She  said  that  when  she  came 
to  herself  she  felt  that  her  mind  was  dis- 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER          207 

turbed,  and  was  glad  to  be  in  a  place  where 
she  might  be  helped  to  get  well. 

"I  have  wondered  if  you  were  not 
troubled  about  the  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Har 
mon. 

Cousin  Mary's  mild  face  flushed.  "  Be 
fore  I  knew  anything  else  I  knew  that  it 
was  dead.  I  never  asked;  sometimes  in  the 
night  I  cried." 

4 '  Did  you  begin  to  think  about  your  home 
and  William  long  before  you  spoke?" 

4 'Oh,  yes;  I  wanted  to  ask  about  Wil 
liam  for  weeks,  but  somehow  I  could  not. 
One  day  I  could  say  the  words,  and  I  asked 
the  attendant —  Here  she  hesitated.  "  I 
remember  her, "  said  Mrs.  Harmon;  "that 
big,  strong  Irish  woman.  What  did  she  tell 
you?" 

''She  said,  'Don't  bother  about  him— 
he's  got  another  wife  long  ago!'  Of  course 
I  knew  it  was  not  true, "  said  Cousin  Mary, 
meekly,  "but  it  grieved  me  a  little." 

Amy  made  some  gesture  of  indignant  pro 
test,  but  Cousin  Mary,  busy  at  her  sewing, 


208  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

did  not  see  it.  She  went  on  calmly,  saying 
that  perhaps  she  had  delayed  her  own  recov 
ery.  She  had  found  in  the  pocket  of  one 
of  her  dresses  a  scrap  of  the  lace  that  she 
had  sewn  around  the  neck  of  one  of  the 
baby's  slips.  She  liked  to  touch  it,  and  to 
hold  it  against  her  face.  One  day  the  nurse 
suddenly  pointed  her  out  to  a  passing  doc 
tor.  * '  She's  pretty  crazy  yet,  you  see !"  < < I 
did  not  know  that  it  was  wrong,"  said  Cou 
sin  Mary,  "or  I  should  not  have  done  it." 

"How  horrible!"  cried  Amy;  "that  wo 
man  ought  to  be  killed!" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  think  that,"  begged 
Cousin  Mary;  "I  am  sure  she  never  meant 
to  be  unkind,  and  she  was  very  faithful  and 
industrious." 

The  next  autumn  Cousin  Mary  seemed 
frailer  than  before.  Sometimes  the  doctor 
stopped  her  in  the  hall  with  kindly  inquiries 
about  her  health.  "Is  there  any  danger 
of  Cousin  Mary's  mania  returning?"  asked 
Amy. 

"They  say  not,"  answered  her  mother. 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER          209 

"It  was  not  constitutional;  it  was  an  acci 
dent,  as  a  fever  might  have  been." 

In  her  heart  Amy  thought  them  all  a  little 
dull.  Certainly,  Cousin  Mary  was  not  well. 
She  came  no  more  to  the  house,  but  in  the 
evening  William  often  stopped  for  a  tonic 
or,  a  sleeping  powder  on  his  way  home  from 
work.  He  did  not,  however,  seem  any 
more  distressed  than  did  the  others. 

It  was  the  last  season  before  Amy  Har 
mon's  marriage.  She  was  going  out  con 
stantly.  The  night  before  Christmas  she 
danced  till  three  o'clock.  "  Don't  try  to 
get  up  to  breakfast,  dear,"  said  her  mother. 

"Not  get  up  on  Christmas  morning? 
Why,  I'd  get  up  then  if  I  had  to  stay  in  bed 
a  month  to  pay  for  it." 

The  Christmas  tree  was  shown  just  after 
breakfast.  The  children  screamed  and 
shouted.  Everybody  was  happy.  The 
drawing-room  floor  was  covered  with  tinsel 
cords  and  ribbons  and  wrapping  paper; 
neighbor  children  ran  in  and  out;  uncles 
14 


210  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

came  bearing  gifts;  the  telephone  rang  itself 
into  spasms. 

On  Christmas  evening  the  Harmons 
always  went  to  the  house  of  the  grandfather. 
There  was  a  supper  at  which  everybody, 
big  and  little,  was  seated,  and  in  the  even 
ing  dancing  and  games.  Amy  and  her  little 
sister  Nelly  went  first;  they  were  to  send 
the  carriage  back  for  the  others.  As  they 
were  starting  Mrs.  Harmon  gave  them  a 
basket  full  of  little  gifts  for  Cousin  Mary  to 
be  left  at  her  house  on  the  way. 

1 '  Go  in  quietly  without  knocking, "  she 
said.  "Your  father  says  she  is  doing  well, 
but  she  may  be  asleep." 

The  house  was  one  of  a  row  of  work- 
ingmen's  cottages  that  stretched  out  in  the 
shadow  of  a  great  factory.  The  factory 
was  still  and  dark;  the  street  lay  hushed  in 
the  silence  of  a  late  Christmas  afternoon. 
There  was  no  light  in  the  house  except  one 
that  shone  through  a  side  window.  The 
coachman  carried  the  basket  to  the  door, 
and  Amy,  gathering  her  finery  over  her  arm 


THE  WIFE  OF  A  CARPENTER  211 

and  followed  by  her  little  sister,  ran  through 
snow  drifts  as  high  as  her  shoulder  along 
the  little  path  from  the  gate  to  the  house. 
She  opened  the  door  softly  and  they 
entered.  She  viewed  the  little  place — its 
braided  rugs,  its  tidy  poverty.  There  was 
no  sound  except  that  of  the  voice  of  a  man 
reading  in  the  inner  room.  Amy  floated 
across  the  outer  one;  her  bright  mantle 
slipped  from  her  shoulders  and  lay  at  her 
feet,  a  pool  of  shimmering  gold  and  azure. 
As  she  stood  poised  in  her  white  gown  in  the 
square  of  light  that  came  through  the  open 
doorway  little  Nelly  saw  her  with  sudden 
awe.  "I  think,"  she  whispered  to  herself, 
"that  sister  looks  like  an  angel!"  Then  she 
stole  to  Amy's  side  and  looked  into  the 
further  room.  There,  white  as  a  lily,  her 
bright  hair  spread  out  like  an  aureole  over 
her  pillow,  lay  Cousin  Mary.  The  light  of 
happiness  and  life  and  love  was  in  her  blue 
eyes.  On  her  arm  was  a  baby.  As  they 
stood  there  they  heard  William  read  the 
scripture  for  the  day: 


212  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

"And  this  shall  be  a  sign  unto  you;  Ye 
shall  find  the  babe  wrapped  in  swaddling 
clothes,  lying  in  a  manger. 

' '  And  suddenly  there  was  with  the  angel 
a  multitude  of  the  heavenly  host  praising 
God,  and  saying, 

' '  *  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on 
earth  peace,  good  will  toward  men.' " 


A  GENTLEWOMAN 


A  GENTLEWOMAN 

ONE  winter  afternoon  three  friends  sat 
together  sewing.  It  was  the  week  be 
fore  Christmas,  and  they  were  busy  prepar 
ing  for  that  season.  Some  packages,  be- 
ribboned  and  addressed,  lay  on  the  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  drawing-room  in  the 
shadow  of  a  cluster  of  long-stemmed  red 
roses.  Other  parcels,  almost  ready  to  be 
put  with  them,  filled  a  chair  near  one  of 
the  ladies. 

As  they  pursued  their  pretty  work,  they 
talked  together  with  playful  candor.  But 
although  their  conversation  was  intelligent 
and  free,  there  was  a  sort  of  repression 
about  it  which  stands  among  American  wo 
men  as  a  sign  of  high  breeding.  The  same 
thing  was  to  be  noticed  in  the  composure 
of  their  attitudes  and  even  in  the  simple  ele 
gance  of  their  attire.  It  was  an  easy  guess 
215 


2l6  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

that  any  one  of  them  would  regard  a  mani 
festation  of  mental  or  moral  vehemence  as 
evidence  of  a  lack  of  culture. 

They  had  been  speaking  of  a  woman 
whom  they  all  knew.  Then  as  the  sun 
sank  behind  the  snow-capped  turrets  of 
the  house  opposite,  they  dropped  their  work 
and  talked  of  womankind. 

' '  I  wonder  if  it  is  true  that  all  women  are 
at  heart  pretty  much  alike?"  asked  Theo 
dora. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Fanny,  "I  see  no 
more  reason  for  believing  that  women's 
hearts  are  alike  than  that  their  minds  are, 
which  is  absurd." 

"I  think  we  are  all  alike,"  said  Amy. 
"There  are  the  same  depths  and  shallows 
in  every  woman's  nature.  What  fills  the 
depth — love,  or  religion,  or  jealousy — is  of 
course  decided  by  circumstances  or  educa 
tion." 

Fanny  objected:  "  It  is  easy  to  say  that, 
but  you  cannot  prove  it.  There  are  a  very 
few  instinctive  passions,  such,  for  instance, 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  217 

as  maternal  affection  (which  even  Theodora 
must  admit  she  has  in  common  with  the 
lower  animals),  that  we  all  may  feel;  but 
I  think  it  probable  that  the  highly  devel 
oped  sensibility  which  alone  can  engender 
complex  and  delicate  emotion  is  the  result 
of  culture,  either  personal  or  inherited." 

"I  don't  like  to  agree  with  you,"  said 
Theodora.  '  <  For  one  thing,  such  an  idea 
seems  irreligious." 

"Yes;  that's  a  fine  reason,"  laughed 
Fanny. 

"I  have  known  many  women  intimately," 
said  Amy,  ' '  and  I  am  sure  that  no  class 
monopolizes  the  capacity  for  high  and  in 
tense  feeling." 

' « I  like  the  way  you  two  talk!"  exclaimed 
Fanny.  "Whom  did  either  of  you  ever 
know  outside  of  your  relatives  and  visiting 
lists?" 

Theodora  ventured  to  respond  that  she 
had  gone  among  the  poor  a  great  deal. 

"No  doubt,"  commented  Fanny,  "the 


21 8  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

worthy  poor! — that  is  to  say,  the  poor  made 
in  your  image. " 

"And  I,"  asserted  Amy,  "may  have 
learned  something  from  books.  You  know 
I  read  anything  that  tells  of  humanity." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Fanny,  "you  pride 
yourself  on  your  love  for  your  kind,  and  you 
lie  on  the  sofa  all  day  reading  stories  about 
French  and  Russian  women.  I  don't  say 
the  stories  are  not  true,  but  how  do  you 
know  they  are?" 

"How  does  one  know  anything?"  asked 
Theodora.  ' '  One  sees  by  one's  imagina 
tion;  one  tests  what  is  seen  by  one's  rea 
son." 

"That  sounds  very  grand;  it's  a  pity 
there's  no  sense  in  it!"  said  Fanny.  "For 
my  part,  I  wish  I  could  know  for  myself." 
She  paused,  laughed,  and  then,  with  a  look 
of  defiance  on  her  pretty  face,  began  to 
speak  more  earnestly  than  before.  '  *  The 
truth  is,  I  just  long  to  know  something  out 
side  of  ourselves.  I  am  lonely  on  our  little 
desert  island  of  culture.  I  want  to  shake 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  219 

hands  with  the  howling  savages  on  shore. 
Maybe  I  wouldn't  like  it,  but  I  wish  I  could 
get  a  chance." 

Amy  began  to  speak,  and  then  hesitated. 
* 1 1  do  not  know  that  it  would  interest  you 
— last  summer  I  met, — but  perhaps  it's  too 
long  a  story." 

"Pray  tell  it,"  said  Theodora,  politely. 

4 'Yes,"  said  Fanny,  "pray  tell  it.  But 
I  don't  believe  you  ever  met  anybody  who 
was  not  introduced  to  you  by  your  mother 
or  your  sister-in-law." 

Amy  blushed  a  little  as  she  began. 
"  Eighteen  months  ago  I  had  to  go  to  Chi 
cago  alone.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should 
change  from  one  train  to  another  on  the 
way,  and  I  was  to  wait  in  Plymouth  from 
noon  until  six  in  the  afternoon.  There  was 
nothing  alarming  about  this,  for  Plymouth 
is  as  quiet  an  old  place  as  one  could  wish 
to  find." 

"I  know  it,"  interrupted  Fanny.  "The 
cleanest  little  town!  There  are  sandy 
streets  densely  shaded  by  beautiful  maple 


220  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

trees,  and  here  and  there  a  mountain  ash 
bright  with  clusters  of  scarlet  berries." 

"My  husband  had  told  me  just  what  to 
do,"  continued  Amy.  4<I  was  to  go  from 
the  station  to  the  La  Fayette  House,  and 
stay  there  until  time  for  the  next  train. 
This  house  is  an  old  place  which  is  highly 
thought  of  by  the  few  travelers — mostly 
lawyers — who  have  occasion  to  stop  in  the 
little  town.  It  is  more  like  an  English  inn 
than  one  would  think  possible,  with  not  one 
modern  improvement,  and  yet  much  homely 
comfort. 

"I  walked  from  the  station  to  the  hotel. 
The  day  was  beautiful.  At  the  door  the 
landlord  met  me  with  hospitable  warmth.  I 
was  late  for  their  regular  dinner,  but  his 
daughter,  a  comely  old  maid,  took  me  into 
the  dining-room,  seated  me  by  a  vine- 
shaded  window,  and  served  me  with  simple 
dainties — red  raspberries  fresh  from  the  gar 
den  just  outside,  a  pitcher  of  yellow  cream, 
and  later  a  little  cake  hot  from  the  oven — 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  221 

the  'try-cake,'  she  said,  of  one  she  was 
'making  for  tea.' 

"When  my  luncheon  was  finished,  I  went 
across  the  hall  to  the  parlor  and  looked 
about  me  before-  I  settled  myself  for  the 
afternoon  with  a  novel.  I  delighted  in  the 
room; — the  striped  paper  on  the  walls;  the 
pictures  high-hung  and  tilted  forward;  the 
clean  Nottingham  curtains  that  shook  in  the 
sweet  air." 

"You  don't  say  anything  about  the  tin 
plaque  with  a  one-legged  stork  on  it,"  said 
Fanny. 

"No;  because  I  didn't  see  it.  But  there 
was  an  old  glass  fruit  dish  full  of  mignonette 
on  the  center  table.  The  room  seemed  like 
the  rest  of  the  house — sweet  and  peaceful, 
as  if  it  were  the  index  of  simple,  undisturbed 
lives. 

"In  a  far  corner,  with  her  back  to  me, 
sat  a  lady  busy  with  some  needlework. 
She  had  the  appearance  of  being  at  home. 
Her  work-basket  was  beside  her.  I  did  not 
look  at  her  twice,  but  opened  my  book  and 


222  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

read  for  awhile,  forgetting  there  was  anyone 
present  but  myself.  A  half  hour,  perhaps, 
had  passed,  when  the  lady  rose  and  walked 
across  the  room.  As  she  moved,  I  looked 
after  her,  at  first  listlessly,  then  astounded. 
I  could  not  see  her  face,  but  her  dress,  her 
figure,  above  all,  her  carnage,  fairly  took 
my  breath  away.  I  never  have  seen  any 
thing  like  the  grace  of  her  moving.  I  know 
now  that  the  most  beautiful  dancing  in  the 
world  is  not  so  beautiful  as — is  not  to  be 
compared  with — the  rhythmical  grace  pos 
sible  in  the  human  walk.  When  she  seated 
herself,  I  felt  a  sort  of  pang,  as  if  music  had 
ceased.  Then  I  noticed  her  costume.  You 
may  smile,  Fanny,  but  I  have  seldom  seen 
a  woman  so  charmingly  dressed.  My  own 
little  bravery  seemed  tawdry  and  common 
beside  the  fashion  of  her  attire.  I  almost 
thought  I  was  dreaming." 

' '  And  were  you  not  ?"  asked  Fanny.  « '  You 
know  I've  been  in  Plymouth  myself!" 

"Who  was  she?"  inquired  Theodora. 

"That  was  what  I  tried  to  think.     I  con- 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  223 

eluded  that  she  must  belong  to  one  of  the 
wealthy  Sevier  County  families,  and  was 
perhaps  waiting  here  after  a  summer's  ab 
sence  for  her  house  to  be  opened.  But  I 
wondered  that  in  that  case  I  had  not  heard 
of  her.  She  was  sewing  on  some  fancy- 
work,  a  strip  of  pink  velvet  cut  in  deep 
points  along  one  edge,  which  she  embroid 
ered  with  silver  thread  and  jewel-like  beads. 
She  dropped  her  thimble  and  rose  to  look 
for  it.  I  saw  it  in  a  corner.  Then  we  fell 
into  conversation.  Soon  I  was  seated  at 
her  side,  counting  the  beads  for  her  as  she 
used  them.  I  know  I  can  never  make  you 
understand  the  simple  elegance  of  that  wo 
man's  manner — her  grace,  her  dignity!" 

"  First, "  said  Fanny,  "  I'd  like  to  under 
stand  something  about  your  manner  and  its 
dignity.  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  sitting 
down  to  sew  with  every  woman  you  meet 
in  a  hotel  parlor?" 

"You  know  very  well  that  I  am  not.  It 
was  her  fineness  which  made  it  possible.  It 
seemed  just  the  natural  thing  to  do.  There 


224  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

was  no  possibility  of  making  one's  self  com 
mon  in  her  society." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Fanny,  "I  suppose  it 
was  not  so  very  bad.  I  know  who  she  was 
— that  young  Mrs.  Ridley,  whose  husband 
is  minister  to  China." 

* '  No,  my  dear, "  answered  Amy,  '  'she  was 
not  Mrs.  Ridley.  Of  course  I  myself  was 
wondering  who  she  was,  though  the  instant 
charm  of  her  presence  kept  me  from  think 
ing  definitely  about  it.  By  and  by  I  care 
lessly  asked  her  what  her  work  (the  strip  of 
velvet)  was  for.  What  do  you  think  she 
said — you,  Fanny,  who  know  everything?" 

"For  the  mantelpiece  in  her  own  little 
sitting-room,  of  course,"  said  Fanny. 

1  'Not  at  all!  Without  haste  or  hesita 
tion,  as  simply  as  possible,  she  said,  *  For 
my  husband's  costume.' ' 

"Well,"  said  Fanny,  "I  suppose  they 
were  going  to  have  some  private  theatri 
cals." 

"I  said  something  implying  that.  She 
looked  at  me  with  mild  surprise.  'Ah/ 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  225 

said  she,  « I  fancy  Raymond  would  find 
that  very  tiresome. '  Then  we  went  back  to 
what  we  had  been  talking  about.  She  told  me 
of  a  winter  journey  in  Russia;  how  her  hus 
band  piled  furs  over  her  till  she  thought  she 
should  smother;  of  the  palaces  and  their 
conservatories;  of  a  certain  princess' gowns; 
of  market  scenes  and  fetes  on  the  ice — all 
this,  and  more,  with  such  gaiety  and  wit, 
with  such  pretty  accompaniment  of  gesture 
and  changing  color  and  light  mimicry,  that 
nothing  could  have  been  more  charming." 

Fanny  mused:  "The  Reed-Dudleys  live 
somewhere  up  there;  they  are  often  abroad. " 

"  She  was  not  one  of  the  Reed-Dudleys," 
answered  Amy. 

"Well,  then, "said  Fanny,  "you  deserved 
no  such  luck;  and  how  it  ever  happened  in 
Plymouth,  and  in  summer,  is  past  me  — but 
she  was  an  actress  or  a  singer." 

"She  was  neither;  a  thought  of  that  sort 
did  occur  to  me  for  a  minute,  but  I  rejected 
it,  even  before  I  found  out  positively  that  it 
was  not  true.  One  look  at  her  face  would 


226  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

have  convinced  you  that  never  since  she  was 
born  had  that  rose-petal  skin  ever  been 
touched  by  paint  and  powder.  Have  I  told 
you  what  she  was  like?" 

"No,"  said  Fanny.  "I  thought  you 
spared  us  purposely." 

"I  suppose  she  was  very  pretty!"  said 
Theodora. 

' '  I  do  not  know  whether  she  was  or  not, 
but  she  was  a  revelation  of  what  a  woman 
may  be  at  the  high  mark  of  physical  perfec 
tion.  She  had  in  her  appearance  a  quality 
that  transcends  any  beauty  of  feature." 

<4Oh,  yes,"  said  Fanny,  "goodness — I 
used  to  hear  that  sort  of  talk  when  I  was  a 
little  girl.  I  thought  it  was  out  of  date 
now. " 

"I  do  not  mean  goodness;  though  for 
that  matter,  her  face  did  show  that.  It  was 
a  quality  that  is  as  much  a  material  attri 
bute  as  beauty  is.  She  was  the  incarnation 
of  physical  well-being — the  climax  of  per 
fect  health.  She  fairly  glowed  with  it;  an 
atmosphere  of  it  seemed  to  surround  her. 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  227 

Even  to  be  near  her  was  to  feel  a  health- 
giving  influence.  Looking  at  her,  one  would 
say  that  from  head  to  foot  there  was  not  a 
muscle,  not  a  nerve,  not  a  drop  of  blood, 
but  was  working  in  absolute  order  as  God 
meant  it  to  work.  I  never  thought  until  I 
saw  her  what  physical  perfection  might  be 
— not  physical  beauty,  which  beside  it  is  a 
poor,  scrappy  affair,  but  strong,  flawless 
vitality.  I  tell  you  this  fair  creature  made 
other  women  show  beside  her  as  deformities 
—cripples." 

' '  How  )'ou  must  love  to  contemplate  Mr. 
Corbett!"  said  Fanny. 

"Nonsense!"  answered  Amy.  "A  man 
of  that  kind  is  the  owner  of  certain  abnor 
mally  developed  muscles — to  a  degree  the  re 
sult  of  special  training.  This  young  woman 
seemed  to  have  blossomed  into  perfection 
as  a  flower  does. 

* '  But  I  was  telling  you  of  our  conversa 
tion.  She  mentioned  her  husband  again, 
and  said  he  had  gone  to  some  small  town 
near  by  on  professional  business.  She  had 


228  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

stayed  in  Plymouth  a  while  the  year  before, 
when  he  was  on  a  similar  journey;  he  felt 
it  safe  to  leave  her  there  because  the  people 
in  the  house  were  such  good,  kindly  folks. " 

4 'And  then"  said  Fanny,  "I  suppose 
you  asked  this  United  States  Senator's  wife 
what  her  husband's  line  of  trade  was?" 

"Not  quite  that,  but  something  like  it, 
I'm  afraid.  She  answered  me  at  once." 

"She  answered  you  as  you  deserved,  I 
hope,"  said  Fanny. 

* '  Fanny,  are  you  not  ashamed  of  your 
self?"  exclaimed  Theodora.  "You  know  you 
would  have  asked  her  flatly  in  the  first  five 
minutes!" 

"She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  smile," 
continued  Amy,"  and  she  said,  '  Will  it  seem 
vain  for  me  to  say,  what  our  agent  has 
printed  on  all  his  letterheads,  that  my  hus 
band,  Raymond  Mersac,  and  I  are  the  lead 
ing  cannon-ball  artists  in  the  world?'" 

"And  what,"  said  Theodora,  "is  a  can 
non-ball  artist?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  cried  Fanny.      "A  can- 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  229 

non-ball  artist — oh,  why  was  I  not  in  Ply 
mouth  that  day? — a  cannon-ball  artist  is  a 
lady,  clad  in  tights,  who  is  shot  out  of  an 
imitation  cannon — Amy,  you  never  deserved 
this;  yon  could  not  appreciate  it — shot  out 
of  an  imitation  cannon  with  a  spring,  high 
into  the  air,  where  she  catches  the  hands  of 
a  gentleman  who  is  at  the  moment  sus 
pended  by  the  knees,  head  down,  from  a 
trapeze — that  is  a  little  swing  fastened  on 
a  tight  rope!  Amy,  it  has  been  the  dream 
of  my  life  to  meet,  to  actually  know,  one  of 
these  circus  people.  And  now  it  has  hap 
pened  to  you!  It  is  too  much!" 

• '  I  can  understand, "  said  Theodora,  <  'that 
one  might  be  curious,  not  about  the  indi 
viduals,  but  about  their  habits.  I  confess 
that  I  cannot  see  how  a  person  living  such 
a  life  as  that  from  childhood  (and  I  believe 
that  only  long  training  makes  such  feats 
possible)  could  have  any  of  the  womanly 
charm  that  Amy  says  belonged  to  her  Mad 
ame  Mersac." 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  understand  it,"  said 


230  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Amy,  "  and  I  do  not  know  that  her  life  had 
anything  to  do  with  her  personality,  though 
probably  it  had  preserved  for  her  the  tran 
scendent  physical  endowment  with  which 
she  must  have  been  born. " 

'  *  Well,  I  hope  you  asked  her  a  thousand 
questions!"  exclaimed  Fanny. 

4 'No  doubt  I  should  have  expected  my 
self  to,  but  in  her  presence  one  was  not 
tempted  to  the  impertinence  of  questioning. 
That  would  have  been  impossible.  How 
ever,  I  was  with  her  for  several  hours.  I 
saw  that  she  was  drawn  to  me  as  I  was  to 
her.  It  seemed  just  the  natural  thing  to 
talk  freely,  and  by  and  by  we  gave  ourselves 
to  confidences,  as  children  do,  or  as  young 
girls  will  in  the  first  abandonments  of  inti 
macy. 

"What  she  told  me  of  herself  was  in 
substance  this:  Her  parents  died  when  she 
was  three  years  old.  They  had  been  acro 
bats.  Her  father  was  English,  her  mother 
French.  They  had  no  relatives.  At  their 
death  the  little  Leonie  was  taken  in  charge 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  231 

by  an  old  Frenchman  and  his  wife,  who  had 
some  little  employment  at  a  zoological  gar 
den  near  London,  and  who  kept  a  sort  of 
training  school  for  acrobats.  They  must 
have  been  a  very  gentle,  kindly  old  pair. 
They  gave  her  the  best  training  their  knowl 
edge  could  secure.  Her  exercise,  her  food, 
her  hours  of  rest,  were  carefully  (and  she 
said  lovingly)  arranged  for  her  from  her 
earliest  recollection.  Except  the  hours  when 
she  was  being  taught,  she  spent  almost  all 
her  time  out  of  doors.  She  had  no  play 
mates;  she  said  she  never  wanted  any.  The 
other  students  at  the  training  school  were 
all  older  than  she  while  she  was  a  child;  and 
after  she  was  ten,  she  was  so  much  more 
proficient  in  the  feats  of  her  profession  than 
the  others,  that  she  had  her  lessons  alone. 
« « I  asked  her  if  masters  were  not  at  times 
cruel,  and  if,  when  she  was  a  child,  she  was 
not  frightened  at  the  danger  of  the  exer 
cises.  She  said  she  supposed  trainers  were 
unkind  sometimes,  but  she  fancied  not 
often,  even  if  they  were  by  nature  bad- 


232  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

tempered.  'A  master,'  said  she,  'wants, 
more  than  anything  else,  that  his  pupils 
should  do  him  credit.  Everyone  knows 
that  nothing  is  done  well  under  compulsion. 
When  there  is  one  trace  of  fear  in  the  heart, 
one  can't  think;  one  can't  act;  one  can  do 
nothing  really  very  good.  For  my  own 
part,'  said  she,  '  I  was  never  set  to  do  a  spe 
cial  feat  for  which  I  was  not  already  so  well 
prepared  that  it  was  easy.  It  was  a  delight 
ful  pastime,  the  reward  often  of  months  of 
work.  This  routine  work  was  never  hard, 
and  only  tiresome  because  it  lasted  so  long; 
but  one  came  to  do  it  as  one  might  dance- 
without  thinking  much  about  it." 

1 '  I  suppose, "  said  Theodora,  ' '  that  those 
nets  that  are  hung  under  the  performers 
give  them  confidence  when  they  are  poised 
high  in  the  air." 

"I  said  that.  She  was  very  engaging 
and  sweet  in  her  desire  that  I  should  not 
guess  what  a  primary  sort  of  question  I  had 
asked,  but  her  answer  was  clear.  The  net 
gave  no  confidence,  because  one  never  could 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  233 

walk  on  a  tight  rope  at  all  until  one  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  elevation  of  the  rope. 
The  first  thing  to  learn  was  to  feel  that  the 
rope  was  not  a  rope  stretched  in  mid-air, 
but  a  line  drawn  flat  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  Consequently,  the  net  made  no  dif 
ference  one  way  or  the  other.  With  it  she 
merely  exercised  on  a  line  that  rested  on  a 
surface  covered  with  netting.  As  she  was 
saying  this,  she  stopped  suddenly  with  a 
radiant  smile.  Then  she  said,  *  I  should 
tell  you  that  Raymond  does  not  agree  with 
me  about  this.' 

' '  'He  prefers  a  netting  under  him?'  said  I. 

"'Oh,  no,'  she  laughingly  answered; 
'  but  he  not  only  prefers,  he  insists  on  one 
under  me.  He  sees  to  it  himself  at  every 
performance.  The  canvas  men,  I  am  sure, 
hate  him.  The  whole  company  laughs. 
Sometimes,  when  the  netting  has  been  mis 
laid,  he  will  not  let  me  appear,  and  has  in 
consequence  stormy  interviews  with  the 
manager.  I  thought  it  a  little  babyish  of 
him  at  first — he  is  so  brave  for  himself,  and 


234  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

he  knows  so  well  my  strength  and  confi 
dence.  I  said  so  to  him.'  Here  she 
stopped. 

"  'And  what  did  he  say,  my  dear?'  I  asked, 
with  courage  born  of  our  intimacy. 

"  She  spoke  gravely,  '  He  said:  "  Should 
I  see  you  in  great  danger,  Leonie,  it  might 
not  kill  me,  but  I  think  it  would.'"" 

« '  She  had  lived  so  quietly  with  the  old 
French  couple,"  said  Theodora,  "where 
did  she  get  her  husband?" 

"This  is  what  she  told  me,"  continued 
Amy:  '  I  have  been  married  four  years,  and 
I  can  hardly  remember  when  I  did  not  know 
that  I  was  to  marry  Raymond.  This  always 
made  me  very  happy  when  I  thought  of  it, 
and  I  tried  hard  to  be  good,  so  that  he  might 
be  pleased  with  me.  He  is  ten  years  older 
than  I,  and  was  a  relative  of  my  dear  mas 
ter.  When  he  had  a  vacation  he  came  to 
see  us.  Sometimes,  not  often,  he  brought 
me  a  gift;  and  he  always  talked  to  me  so 
sensibly,  and  yet  so  entertainingly,  that  it 
seemed  to  me  no  company  could  be  so  de- 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  235 

lightful  as  his.  And  then  he  makes  one  feel 
when  he  is  gone  that  one  must  try  to  be 
kinder  and  more  unselfish,  so  as  to  be  like 
him .  I  thought  there  was  no  wiser  or  wit 
tier  man  in  the  world,  and  no  finer  gentle 
man.  I  think  so  still,'  she  added,  simply." 

"What  did  she  know  about  gentlemen?" 
asked  Fanny. 

"Nothing,  except  what  she  had  learned 
from  books.  She  had  met  a  good  many 
men  of  the  world,  she  said,  but  she  had  the 
idea  that  they  were  rude  and  silly.  She  sug 
gested  an  ingenious  explanation — that  such 
people,  not  being  forced  to  be  constantly  to 
gether,  as  those  are  who  work,  are  not 
obliged  to  learn  to  control  themselves  and 
be  polite  for  their  mutual  comfort;  so  they 
should  be  excused  for  little  rudenesses." 

"This  is  important,  if  true,"  said  Fanny; 
"I  must  think  of  it!" 

Amy  continued:  "As  we  talked,  I  came 
to  see  that  there  was  a  very  tender  union 
between  Madame  Mersac  and  her  husband. 
It  was  a  rare  chance  that  had  united  two 


236  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

people  so  untouched  by  what  we  call  the 
realities  of  life.  They  seemed  to  be  as  alone 
as  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise.  She  told  me 
that  they  had  never  had  an  intimate  friend; 
their  whole  life  was  in  each  other.  No  doubt 
there  are  many  people  who  are  capable  of 
such  a  passion,  but  I  don't  think  they  often 
marry  each  other." 

"Well,  it  is  saddening,"  said  Fanny,  "to 
think  that  wedded  love  in  its  highest,  pur 
est  form  can  only  exist  between  a  gentle 
man  and  a  lady  who  are  shot  out  of  a  can 
non  at  each  other,  and  who  enjoy  hanging 
by  their  toes  from  tight  ropes." 

Amy  continued:  "  I  do  not  say  anything 
so  absurd  as  that  the  calling  of  these  two 
made  them  what  they  were.  I  do  believe 
that  a  healthful  existence,  away  from  the 
intellectual  strife  in  which  the  most  of  us 
take  some  part,  might  nourish  a  simple  and 
faithful  spirit,  but  I  cannot  think  of  Madame 
Mersac  as  belonging  to  one  order  or  another. 
She  was  nature's  own." 

"You  said  she  was  witty  and  vivacious," 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  237 

said  Theodora,    "but  had  she  any  educa 
tion?" 

"  As  we  count  education  she  probably  had 
almost  none;  and  yet,  as  results  go,  she  was 
not  behind  some  highly  educated  women. 
She  knew  French  perfectly — not  lady's  maid 
French,  nor  governess  French,  but  that 
beautiful,  elegant,  elastic  tongue  that  never 
was  taught  in  a  finishing  school.  I  suppose 
she  had  a  natural  aptitude  for  language,  for 
her  English  was  charming.  Apparently 
her  words  were  chosen  with  regard  to  their 
finest  meaning,  and  not,  as  ours  sometimes 
are,  in  conformity  to  a  passing  fashion.  She 
had  read  a  great  many  books,  but  she  knew 
nothing  of  magazines  or  newspapers.  Apart 
from  what  she  said,  her  manner  of  speaking 
was  that  of  a  highly  cultivated  person.  Her 
master  had  a  friend,  an  old  dramatic  teacher, 
who  had  instructed  some  of  the  greatest  of 
English  and  French  actors.  This  man  had 
given  her  lessons  in  pronouncing  and  enun 
ciation.  Every  sentence  came  from  her 
lips  with  a  high-bred  accuracy  that  gave  it 


DOWN  OUR  WAY 

a  charm  quite  independent  of  its  meaning. 
But  everything  about  her  was  fine  and  deli 
cate;  her  accent  was  only  part  of  it!" 

* '  Did  she  have  any  curiosity  about  your 
life,  such  as  you  felt  about  hers?"  asked 
Theodora. 

4 '  Yes;  but  I  do  not  think  her  interest  was 
as — morbid,  shall  I  say?  She  did  ask  me 
many  questions,  but  I  fancy  they  were 
prompted  more  by  her  liking  for  me  than 
by  any  curiosity.  It  was  a  startling  experi 
ence.  You  do  not  know  what  an  embar 
rassing  thing  it  is  to  hold  such  a  life  as  ours 
up  to  the  inspection  of  a  sensible  person 
from  another  world.  She  wanted  to  know 
something  of  the  pursuits  of  a  person  who 
had  no  special  work.  She  had  thought  it 
might  be  very  pleasant,  she  said,  but  that 
one  would  have  to  decide  on  ways  in  which 
to  spend  the  time  profitably.  She  asked 
me  what  /  did. 

'"Oh,  I  keep  house,'  I  said. 

"  'Surely,'  she  answered;  'I  might  have 
known  that;  and  it  must  take  thought  and 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  239 

much  time.  Raymond  is  a  very  good  cook. 
He  has  taught  me  how  to  prepare  several 
dainties.  When  we  have  a  chance  I  cook 
something  and  we  have  a  fete.  It  must  be 
very  pleasant  to  have  one's  husband  and 
children  come  to  the  table  every  day  to  com 
pliment  one's  successes.' 

"  'Oh,  I  don't  cook,'  said  I. 

4  '  She  looked  a  little  surprised  for  an  in 
stant.  '  I  see,  I  wras  thinking  of  a  simpler 
life  than  yours.  Of  course  there  is  no  rea 
son  why  a  woman  should  cook  when  she  can 
afford  to  hire  the  services  of  someone  who 
can  do  it  equally  well.  I  can  fancy  there 
are  many  things  one  might  better  save  one's 
time  for — sewing,  teaching  the  children, 
visiting  the  poor,  going  to  church,  and  the 
like.' 

' '  I  was  getting  desperate.  *  My  dear, ' 
I  said,  '  I  neither  sew,  nor  teach  the  chil 
dren,  nor  visit  the  poor,  nor  go  to  church 
on  week  days,  and  yet  I  think  I  am  always 
busy.' 

"  'What  do  you  do?'  she  had  to  ask. 


240  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

"  'Well,  I  make  visits  and  receive  them— 
'Ah,  but  you  have  many  friends,  no  doubt,' 
she     smilingly     interrupted — 'and/     con 
tinued  I,  '  I  go  out  and  buy  things. "; 

"Did  you  tell  her  that  you  improved  your 
mind?"  asked  Fanny;  "because,  if  you  did, 
she  might  have  thought  you  were  chaffing 
her." 

Amy  gave  her  an  indulgent  smile  as  she 
continued:  "We  talked  all  that  long,  quiet 
afternoon  of  more  subjects  than  I  can  re 
count.  We  talked  as  women  do  who  feel 
perfectly  at  ease  and  happy  with  each  other; 
of  large  questions,  and  of  trifles,  and  with 
every  sentence  I  felt  that  this  was  the  friend 
I  had  dreamed  of — a  woman  who  was  ut 
terly  congenial  and  yet  inspiringly  different. 

"The  time  came  for  me  to  go  to  the  sta 
tion.  She  put  on  her  hat  and  walked  with 
me.  I  shall  never  forget  how  she  looked  in 
the  low  afternoon  sunlight.  Her  flesh 
seemed  of  half  crystalline  texture,  like  a 
perfect  fruit  or  flower.  Other  women  give 
you  the  impression  of  being  clothes  all  the 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  241 

way  through,  like  a  rag  doll.  Leonie  moved 
like  a  living,  glowing  statue  draped  in  soft 
fabrics  that  covered  her,  but  were  no  more  a 
part  of  her  than  are  the  clouds  part  of  the 
moon  that  they  veil.  Once  I  slipped  on 
the  board  walk.  She  put  her  arm  around 
me  for  an  instant.  Her  touch  was  magnetic 
— life-giving. 

"The  train  came  in;  we  stood  in  silence; 
she  held  my  hands  tightly;  she  looked 
straight  into  my  eyes,  and  then  we  parted. 
Oh,  how  sweet  she  was!" 

"What  became  of  her?"  asked  Theodora, 
biting  off  a  thread. 

"That  is  not  the  way  to  put  it,"  said 
Fanny;  "the  question  is,  what  happened 
to  her?  Amy,  I  think  it  is  something  you 
do  not  want  to  tell  us.  May  we  try  to 
guess?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  she  fall  from  a  trapeze  or  anything 
of  that  sort?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"  Before  we  begin  guessing,"  said  Theo- 


16 


242  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

dora,  "I  want  to  say  that  you  probably  got 
an  entirely  wrong  idea  of  your  circus  woman. 
It  was  your  own  artlessness  and  delicacy 
that  brought  her  up  into  consideration,  not 
hers.  You  took  for  granted  her  possession 
of  qualities  to  which  she  had  no  claim,  and 
from  your  notion  of  her  environment  and 
your  thought  of  yourself  or  some  other  nice 
person  in  such  a  place,  you  built  up  a  false 
conception  of  her  character.  You  may  as 
well  be  sensible;  a  woman  could  not  live 
that  life  and  be  what  you  fancy  her  to  be." 
Amy  responded  with  more  feeling  than 
her  friends  had  ever  seen  her  manifest.  "  I 
might  have  known  you'd  say  that — it  has 
kept  me  silent  all  these  months  when  I've 
been  thinking  of  her  all  the  time.  She  was 
the  sweetest  human  being,  and  the  purest— 
not  to  be  a  child — that  I  have  ever  seen. 
On  the  way  to  the  station  that  day  we 
crossed  a  little  stream.  As  I  stood  by  her 
side  for  a  moment  or  two  looking  down  into 
the  water,  I  had  a  sense  of  her  spotless 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  243 

sweetness  that  was  like  a  rapture — it  was 
like  what  a  mother  may  feel  for  a  baby." 

She  stopped  abruptly.  She  was  greatly 
embarrassed.  Fanny  began  to  talk  quickly 
to  relieve  the  tension  of  the  moment. 

"I  thought  I  should  like  to  guess,  but  I 
shall  not  try  if  what  happened  was  one  of 
the  things  that  in  newspapers  is  headed 
'Stranger  Than  Fiction.'  I  decline  to  let 
my  imagination  wander  in  such  inartistic 
ways.  I  shall  not  lower  myself  by  pursuing 
anything  less  than  the  inevitable.  Was  the 
end  that?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  inevitable — but  I 
had  not  expected  it." 

4 '  They  will  retire  from  the  circus  busi 
ness,"  said  Theodora,  "and  go  to  live  in 
some  little  French  town.  Monsieur  will 
wax  his  mustache  and  walk  out  often  with 
Madame.  They  will  have  a  little  dog  of 
whom  they  will  make  a  great  pet." 

"Oh,  how  cheap!  You  think,  I  suppose, 
that  that  sounds  quite  like  Coppee  and 
Maupassant." 


244  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

Amy  had  risen  and  was  standing  looking 
out  of  the  window.  Fanny  went  to  her 
side.  "  Madame  Mersac  is  dead,  is  she 
not?"  she  asked,  gently. 

' '  Yes,  she  is  dead. " 

"  I  fancy  there  is  something  about  it  that 
pains  you;  I  do  not  know  what  that  is,  of 
course,  still  I  am  sorry.  But,  Amy,  a  wo 
man  like  that  must  die  or  change.  There 
is  no  place  for  her." 

"I  have  said  that  to  myself  a  hundred 
times,  but  the  loss  is  the  same,"  responded 
Amy. 

As  the  two  stood  by  the  window  the  win 
ter  sunset  grew  each  moment  more  brilliant. 
The  snow-covered  lawn  shone  with  a  pink 
ish  glow,  and  on  the  white-capped  stone 
pillars  of  the  gates  gleamed  a  faint  copper 
luster.  Nature  was  deep  in  winter. 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS 

great  Triennial  Convention  of 
1  United  Women  had  lasted  three  days 
and  Mrs.  Lodge  and  her  friend,  Fanny  Wil 
son,  admitted  to  each  other  that  they  were 
beginning  to  be  tired.  It  was  their  first  ex 
perience  at  such  a  meeting,  and  when  Mrs. 
Lodge  was  chosen  as  a  delegate  by  her  own 
club,  she  at  first  said  she  couldn't  think  of 
going — it  would  just  scare  her  to  death.  Of 
course  she  was  very  much  interested  and  all 
that,  and  it  was  perfectly  lovely  to  have  the 
ability  and  the  courage  to  take  part  in  such 
things,  but  to  go  away  off  from  home  all  by 
herself,  and  to  have  to  appear  before  those 
awfully  clever  women!  Oh,  she  just  couldn't 
— it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  club  to  have 
such  a  delegate. 

But  Sarah  Lee  Wills,  Mrs.  Lodge's  dear 
friend  and  the  well-known  speaker  on  the 
247 


248  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

subject  of  Equal  Suffrage,  said  to  her  that 
it  was  most  important  that  this  Convention 
should  be  marked  by  the  presence  of  women 
who  were  both  earnest  and  conservative, 
and  Auntie  Montgomery  told  her  plainly  that 
it  was  her  duty  to  go — to  come  out,  as  it 
were,  and  take  her  stand  for  the  right. 
Auntie  Montgomery  was  a  blessed  old  wo 
man  who  had  been  persecuted  all  her  life 
for  temperance's  sake,  and  Mrs.  Lodge  would 
have  wanted  to  please  her  even  if  the  idea 
of  going  to  the  Convention  had  been  less 
attractive  to  her  than  it  was.  Therefore  she 
decided  to  go  in  the  company  of  these  two 
standard-bearers.  But  she  invited  Fanny 
Wilson  to  go  with  her  (Fanny  was  a  clever 
girl  who  was  always  ready  for  anything)  so 
that  they  two  might  keep  together  and  not 
be  too  much  of  a  charge  on  Sarah  Lee  Wills 
and  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

Mr.  Lodge  from  the  first  approved  of  his 
wife's  going  and  he  was  pleased  at  her  de 
cision.  ' '  You'll  have  a  good  time, "  he  said, 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  249 

*'  and  when  you  tell  me  all  about  it  I'll  enjoy 
it  probably  even  more  than  you  have  done. " 

She  told  him  that  he  was  sweet  as  he 
always  was — that  if  he  were  like  some  wo 
men's  husbands  she  just  didn't  know  what 
she  should  do.  He  admitted  the  justice  of 
her  opinion,  but  confessed  to  a  lurking  doubt 
in  the  matter.  It  was  about  her,  and  it  gave 
him  some  uneasiness  on  this  occasion.  Was 
she  really  an  earnest  woman?  At  times — 
rarely,  to  be  sure — he  had  feared  that  she 
was  at  heart  a  butterfly. 

She  responded  with  dignity  that  while  she 
did  not  claim  to  be  a  reformer,  she  greatly 
admired  a  woman  who  was,  and  that  if  there 
was  anything  which  she  had  deeply  at  heart 
it  was  the  advancement  of  women,  and 
from  that  the  elevation  of  humanity,  and 
he  still  smiled  and  said,  "Oh,  that's  all 
right." 

The  meetings  of  the  Convention  were 
more  impressive  than  even  the  most  san 
guine  had  dared  to  hope  for.  The  papers 
were  of  the  highest  quality,  the  discussions 


250  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

following  the  papers  were,  so  all  agreed, 
simply  inspiring.  A  session  for  the  revision 
of  the  Constitution  was  so  ably  conducted 
that  a  newspaper  that  had  headed  the  re 
port  of  a  former  meeting  with  the  statement 
that  ''The  Woman  Who  Deliberates  is 
Lost  "  now  apologized  all  of  its  own  accord! 
And  as  the  committee  reports  were  received, 
and  adopted,  and  amended,  and  reamended, 
no  one  could  help  feeling  that  the  occasion 
was  epoch-making.  But  three  meetings  a 
day  for  three  days  had  brought  Mrs.  Lodge 
to  the  end  of  her  strength,  and  when 
Fanny  Wilson  declared  that  she  was  not 
going  to  the  night  session,  she  agreed  to 
stay  at  home  with  her.  Mrs.  Lodge  asked 
the  older  ladies  if  they  also  would  not  like 
to  rest  that  evening,  but  they  were  sustained 
by  inward  grace,  and  the  bare  thought  of 
another  meeting  was  a  trumpet  call  to  them. 
Auntie  Montgomery's  face  was  as  rosy  as 
ever  under  her  white  hair,  as  they  joyously 
started  off,  and  Sarah  Lee  Wills  held  her 
slim  figure  with  the  alertness  of  one  who 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  251 

may  be  called  on  at  any  moment  to  battle 
for  the  truth. 

Nearly  all  of  the  United  Women  were 
billeted  out  on  resident  club  members,  but 
the  distinguished  speakers,  Mrs.  Montgomery 
and  Sarah  Lee  Wills,  agreed  with  Mrs.  Lodge 
and  Fanny  in  preferring  to  stay  at  a  hotel. 
The  one  which  they  chose,  because  some  of 
the  meetings  were  to  be  held  there,  was  an 
immense  be-mirrored  place  through  the 
doors  of  which  conventions  flowed  all  year 
long.  At  this  time  it  was  so  crowded  that 
the  ladies  could  get  only  two  rooms  for  the 
four,  and  because  one  of  the  rooms  was 
much  larger  than  the  other  the  older  ladies 
took  it  with  the  understanding  that  Mrs. 
Lodge  and  Fanny  were  to  spend  as  much 
time  in  it  as  they  chose.  It  was  to  this 
room  that  they  turned  after  they  had  seen 
their  friends  disappear  down  the  hall. 

4  '  And  now,  Margaret, "  said  Fanny,  throw 
ing  up  her  arms  excitedly,  *  *  here's  our 
chance.  Nobody  knows  when  we'll  ever 


252  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

again  be  away  from  home  all  alone.     Let's 
do  something  interesting  for  once!" 

"  Oh,  if  we  just  could!     But  what?" 

"We  might  go  to  a  theater." 

"  Not  by  ourselves." 

"We  might  send  for  a  carriage  and  go 
out  for  a  drive." 

"My  goodness,  no!" 

' '  Let's  go  to  a  restaurant  and  have  some 
thing  to  eat.  I'm  half  starved." 

"Certainly  not." 

Fanny  sulked;  then  she  broke  out, ' '  Well, 
it's  perfectly  awful.  What's  the  use  of  be 
ing  emancipated  if  you  can't  do  anything  or 
have  any  fun!" 

Sadly  they  looked  out  of  the  window. 
They  saw  crowds  on  the  sidewalks  far  below, 
and  carriages  rolled  by,  no  doubt  carrying 
beautiful  ladies  to  balls  and  operas. 

1 '  Here  we  are  locked  up  like  tenement 
house  babies!"  wailed  Fanny.  "  I  wish  we 
had  some  candy,  anyhow!" 

' '  There  is  one  thing  that  Tom  does  some- 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  253 

times,"  said  Mrs.  Lodge.  "We  might  ring 
and  order  something  to  drink." 

"  Oh,  that's  splendid! — something  sort  of 
desperate  and  wicked!" 

A  bell-boy  clinked  along  the  hall  bearing 
the  presumably  always  desired  ice  water. 
"I'll  talk  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Lodge,  "and 
maybe  he'll  think  that  Tom  is  here  with  me." 
She  stepped  to  the  door;  she  was  tall  and 
slim  and  elegant. 

* '  Please  bring  me  from  the  bar  a  list  of 
the  fancy  and  mixed  drinks."  When  the 
boy  stared  and  said,  "Ma'am!"  she  repeated 
the  order.  Looking  back  into  the  room  she 
added  (so  quickly  is  the  sense  of  right  and 
wrong  blunted  by  evil  behavior),  "That  is 
what  you  want,  Thomas,  is  it  not?" 

They  feverishly  studied  the  list  he  brought. 
"  'Manhattan  Cocktail,'  '  Martini  Cocktail,' 
'Vermouth  Cocktail,' — Cocktails  are  not 
nice,  they  have  an  awfully  funny  taste. 
'Soul  Reviver,' — that  sounds  nice.  'Mint 
Julep,' — they're  historic,  you  know." 


254  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

"Well,  what  I  want  is  something  con 
temporaneous,"  said  Fanny. 

4 '  'Gin  Sling, '  '  Gin  Fizz. '  Once  I  tasted 
something  with  gin  in  it;  it  was  pretty  good." 

"That  settles  it;  we're  not  going  to  have 
anything  you  ever  had  in  the  seclusion  of 
private  life.  Oh,  heres  the  thing!"  She 
pointed  rapturously  to  a  line  toward  the  end 
of  the  list: 

"Blue  Blazer,  forty  cents." 

'  *  It  ought  to  be  good — it  costs  more  than 
some  of  the  others,"  said  Mrs.  Lodge. 

' *  And  it  sounds  so  lovely  and  abandoned!" 
cried  Fanny. 

Fanny  Wilson  gave  the  order;  she  was 
short  and  brisk,  and  got  to  the  door  before 
Mrs.  Lodge  had  started.  "Two  Blue  Bla 
zers,  please!"  Then  they  remembered  that 
the  boy  would  know  that  Tom  wasn't  there, 
and  they  giggled  a  great  deal  about  it. 

On  the  tray  that  the  boy  brought  were 
four  glasses.  Two  were  filled  with  water, 
the  other  two  had  in  them  some  strange 
mixture  to  which,  in  clumsy  carrying  out  of 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  255 

directions,  he  touched  a  lighted  match. 
The  stuff  flamed  up  and  spilt  over;  into  the 
flames  he  threw  a  powder  which  flared  up  in 
blue  and  lurid  fires.  The  fumes  rose  and 
spread  heavily  through  the  room.  They 
were  almost  sulphurous.  The  two  women 
left  alone  clutched  their  skirts  to  be  ready  to 
jump.  "What  can  we  do  with  it,"  asked 
Fanny;  ''we  can't  drink  that  ghastly  stuff!" 

"Let's  try  to  blow  it  out!" 

"Or  ring  the  fire  alarm!" 

They  blew  with  all  their  might;  a  news 
paper  or  two  caught  fire,  but  they  finally  ex 
tinguished  the  flames.  The  odor,  however, 
was  not  extinguished.  It  curled  itself  round 
and  clung  to  the  atmosphere.  It  was  like 
paregoric  and  alcohol-barrels  and  burnt 
leather. 

Mrs.  Lodge  rushed  across  the  room  and 
rang  the  bell.  ' '  It  isn't  paid  for,  and  it's 
nearly  ten  o'clock!  Won't  that  boy  ever 
come?" 

Another  boy — with  ice  water — answered 
the  bell.  He  was  commanded,  implored,  to 


256  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

find  the  first  boy,  to  bring  him  instantly, 
and  to  bring  also  the  bill  from  the  bar. 
While  they  waited  they  discussed  the  ques 
tion  of  getting  rid  of  the  stuff  in  the  glasses. 
It  could  not  be  allowed  to  stay  in  the  room 

anybody  would  smell  it.     To  pour  it  out 

of  the  window  was  the  thing.  They  hys 
terically  watched  the  slim  liquid  trickle  out 
of  the  glasses  and  fall  toward  the  glittering 
street.  Mrs.  Lodge  feared  it  might  get  into 
someone's  eyes,  but  Fanny,  stretching  herself 
out  over  the  sill,  said,  "  No,  but  it  may  eat 
a  hole  in  the  awning." 

They  rang  the  bell  frantically  again  and 
again.  The  original  boy  came  at  length— 
incidentally  carrying  ice  water.  He  was 
told  to  bring  the  bill — and  to  hurry! 

Word  came  that  the  bill  was  not  to  be 
had.  The  drinks  had  been  charged— 
charged  to  the  room— and  the  room  was  the 

room  of  Sarah  Lee  Wills  and  Mrs.    Eliza 

P.  Montgomery! 

4 'Go  instantly, "  commanded  Mrs.  Lodge. 

«  Bring  the  barkeeper  himself  T 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  257 

A  young  man  appeared;  two  interested 
bell  boys  on  their  way  with  ice  water  stop 
ped  to  listen.  He  stared  with  an  ugly  grin 
on  his  coarse  face.  The  two  drinks  were 
eighty  cents,  serving  them  in  the  room  was 
twenty-five  cents  more.  Would  he  take  a 
dollar  and  five  cents — no,  a  dollar  and  a 
half — and  be  sure  the  charge  was  taken  off 
the  bill?  The  bell  boys  had  moved  on;  he 
looked  about  him  and  took  the  money. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  we  make  him  carry 
away  the  glasses?"  they  exclaimed.  Stories 
heard  long  before  of  shoes  changed  in  tavern 
halls  came  to  their  minds.  With  the  tray 
in  their  hands  they  peeped  up  and  down, 
waiting  till  the  hall  should  be  clear  so  that 
they  could  slip  out  and  deposit  their  load  at 
the  door  of  some  innocent  commercial  trav 
eler.  Finally  not  a  person  was  to  be  seen, 
except  indeed  a  man  who  lingered  in  the 
diminishing  distance,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
be  looking  at  them,  and  anyhow  he  just 
wouldn't  go.  They  scurried  fifty  feet  down 
the  hall,  the  man  looking  calmly  on,  put 


258  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

down  their  glasses  and  ran  back  breathless 
with  excitement  and  laughing.  Mrs.  Lodge 
said  that  it  wasn't  really  wrong,  you  know, 
and  it  was  funny.  Fanny  thought  that  the 
ways  of  vice  were  all  right,  but  the  drinks 
were  awful.  * '  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  some 
lemonade!"  she  sighed.  A  little  later  the 
others  came  in  and  told  them  they  had 
missed  suck  a  treat. 

Mrs.  Lodge  and  Fanny  went  home  the 
next  morning,  leaving  the  two  leaders  to 
take  part  in  inner  councils  and  committee 
meetings.  Mrs.  Lodge  had  recurring  pangs 
of  anxiety.  What  if  somehow  or  other  it 
should  get  out  about  the  Blue  Blazers?  At 
home  she  told  the  story  at  once  to  her  hus 
band,  who  tried  to  sympathize,  and,  she 
thought,  laughed  more  than  there  was  any 
call  for.  "Now,"  she  said,  "have  I  done 
right?  Should  I  have  told  Mrs.  Wills  and 
Auntie  Montgomery  all  about  it?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  not;  you've  paid  for  your 
drinks;  you've  been  honest.  You  never 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  259 

professed  any  rabid  temperance  principles 
yourself." 

'  <  But — suppose  they  should  hear  it  talked 
about  in  the  hotel?  Of  course  we  had  a 
right  to  order  what  we  chose,  but  maybe  it 
was  a  little  inconsiderate  when  we  were  in 
the  same  party." 

He  tried  not  to  smile.  "Well,  if  they,  as 
you  say,  hear  it  spoken  of  they  can  just  say 
that  they  are  not  responsible  for  you."  He 
went  on:  "Really  I  wouldn't  distress  my 
self  about  it,  and  I'd  never  mention  it  again. 
It  was  an  accident,  your  being  in  their  room, 
and  to  try  to  explain  will  only  make  it 
worse. " 

The  morning  that  Sarah  Lee  Wills  and 
Mrs.  Montgomery  were  to  leave  the  hotel 
Alice  Van  Blaricum  came  to  see  them  off. 
She,  as  everybody  knows,  is  a  lawyer,  and 
also  the  strongest  of  the  Eastern  workers 
in  the  temperance  cause.  Her  majestic  ap 
pearance  and  fiery  eloquence  have  turned 
thousands  from  the  path  of  error.  She 
perched  on  the  bed  and  watched  the  others 


260  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

pack,  meanwhile  talking  with  animation  of 
the  work  and  its  prospects. 

"Now,"  said  Sarah  Lee  Wills,  as  she 
locked  her  trunk,  ' '  I'll  run  down  and  pay 
the  bill,  and  then  we'll  have  a  few  peaceful 
minutes. " 

She  came  back  almost  immediately.  In 
her  hand  was  the  bill;  her  face  showed  the 
wildest  agitation.  "  Come!  Come!"  she 
cried  to  the  others.  "Something  of  the 
greatest  importance  has  happened!" 

She  hurried  them  into  the  great  marble- 
floored  rotunda  and  up  to  a  pale  young 
clerk. 

"Now"  she  said,  "will  you  in  the  pres 
ence  of  these  women  say  what  is  in  that 

bill?" 

"Certainly,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  and  in 
a  firm  voice  he  read  aloud  these  words: 

"Mrs.  Sarah  Lee  Wills  and  Mrs.  Mont 
gomery,  for  drinks  sent  from  bar  to  room 

105." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  stepped  forward;  her 
sweet,  round  old  face  was  flushed;  her  clear 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  261 

voice  penetrated  to  the  far  limits  of  the  ro 
tunda: 

"I  call  upon  you  to  explain  that  bill!" 

The  place  was  full  of  men.  The  River 
and  Levees  Commission  was  in  session;  the 
Cotton  Planters'  Association  met  that  day. 
Other  clerks  left  their  books.  "Ladies," 
said  the  young  man,  nervously,  "come  into 
the  private  office.  This  is  too  public  a  place 
for  a  discussion." 

"  Sir, "  said  Sarah  Lee  Wills,  < '  we  will  not 
be  hustled  off  into  any  private  office!  We 
are  not  afraid  of  the  public!  We  want  the 
public  to  hear  our  denial  of  your  infamous 
charge!" 

"All  right,"  said  the  clerk,  desperately; 
"have  it  your  own  way.  Madam,"  turning 
to  Mrs.  Montgomery,  "do  you  deny  that 
you  made  this  order?" 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  short  plump  figure  ex 
panded  with  emotion;  her  eyes  flashed,  she 
waved  her  arm  majestically  for  silence,  and 
addressed  the  crowd. 

4 '  Gentlemen,  for  twenty-five  years  I  was 


262  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

an  honored  wife,  for  twenty-five  years  I  have 
been  a  widow.  I  have  raised  eleven  chil 
dren  to  worthy  manhood  and  womanhood. 
For  a  lifetime  I  have  worked  for  and  with 
the  outcast  and  lowly,  but  never  until  this 
hour  was  such  an  insult  put  upon  me!  never 
until  now  has  my  character  been  attacked!" 

The  young  man  trembled,  but  was  obsti 
nate;  a  running  bell-boy  brought  the  proprie 
tor.  The  crowd  parted  to  let  the  great  man 
pass  through.  •'  What's  this?"  he  said,  and 
then,  to  the  clerk,  "Sure  this  charge  is 
right?" 

' '  There  isn't  any  doubt  of  it,  sir.  I  can 
prove  it  by  half  a  dozen  boys." 

Alice  Van  Blaricum  now  stepped  forward. 
* '  Here  is  my  card!  I  undertake  the  charge 
of  this  case.  First,  I  wish  to  examine  in 
private  the  person  who  claims  to  have  re 
ceived  this  order." 

She  came  from  the  interview  with  rage 
in  her  eye.  "It  is  a  conspiracy;  he  de 
scribes  you  perfectly — one  short  and  rosy, 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  263 

one  tall  and  thin  with  black  eyes!"  (which 
indeed  was  perfectly  true). 

"  Bring  that  boy  here!"  called  Sarah  Lee 
Wills.  "  Let  me  talk  to  him!" 

"Now,"  she  said,  transfixing  him  with 
stern  outstretched  finger,  * '  Look  me  in  the 
face,  and  tell  me  if  I  gave  you  that  order  T 

The  boy's  countenance  changed  as  he 
looked  at  her.  "  No'm,"  he  whimpered,  "I 
guess  not!" 

The  bookkeeper  addressed  the  proprietor, 
"They  ordered  the  stuff  of  this  boy,  and 
tried  to  make  him  think  it  was  for  a  man 
inside.  The  watchman  saw  them  for  a  half 
hour  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  glasses.  The 
chambermaid  found  the  tray  in  front  of  a 
linen-closet  door.  The  barkeeper  was  taken 
there  by  another  boy,  and  they  tried  to  get 
him  to  accept  the  money  and  remove  the 
charge  from  the  bill,  but  he  refused." 

The  proprietor  looked  at  the  excited  wo 
men  and  at  the  irreverent  crowd.  "All 
right,  ladies,"  he  said;  "little  dispute  about 


264  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

the  bill.  You  needn't  pay  it."  The  three 
all  answered  him  at  once: 

"  What  do  we  care  for  the  money!" 

"We  have  been  insulted,  and  you  offer  us 
no  apology!" 

"You  need  not  think  to  get  out  of  it  that 
way!" 

He  ran  his  hand  wildly  through  his  hair, 
1 1  Ladies,"  he  said,  desperately,  "we  apolo 
gize — we're  sorry — we'll  take  the  charge  off 
— we'll  do  anything!" 

A  look  of  consultation  passed  between  the 
three.  "We  can  do  no  more  now"  they 
said. 

As  they  turned  to  go  Alice  Van  Blaricum 
addressed  the  audience,  and  particularly  the 
proprietor:  "To  be  abused  and  slandered 
is  no  new  thing  for  those  who  oppose  the 
terrific  power  of  the  liquor  interest,  but  this 
attack  surpasses  in  virulence  and  infamy 
anything  that  has  thus  far  been  attempted. 
But  do  not  think  that  we  do  not  know  the 
secret  spring  that  controls  your  action.  You, 


THE  BLUE  BLAZERS  265 

sir,  and  your  whole  establishment  are  bought 
and  sold  by  the  gold  of  the  rumseller!" 

They  went  out  and  the  proprietor  passed 
on  into  his  private  office,  making  wearily  a 
significant  motion  to  a  bell-boy.  As  the 
ladies  parted  at  the  station  they  said  darkly 
to  each  other  that  they  were  not  done  with 
this  yet;  this  was  only  the  beginning,  and 
it  would  be  in  every  newspaper  in  America 
to-morrow  morning. 

The  next  day  Sarah  Lee  Wills  telephoned 
for  Mrs.  Lodge  to  come  to  her  house.  '  *  Oh, 
Tom,"  she  said,  "I  can't!  I  just  know!" 

1 '  Nonsense, "  said  he,  '  'go  on ;  remember 
that  in  any  case  you  will  embarrass  her  more 
than  yourself  if  you  go  into  explanations." 

Sarah  Lee  Wills  met  her  with  open  arms. 
''Oh,  my  dear!"  she  cried,  "I  am  so  glad 
that  you  were  here  safe.  You  could  not 
have  borne  it,  you've  always  been  so  shel 
tered  from  the  knowledge  of  this  evil  world. 
The  awfulest  thing  happened— 

Mrs.  Lodge  tottered  to  a  chair.  ' '  First  I 
must  tell  you !"  she  said,  but  before  she  got 


266  DOWN  OUR  WAY 

her  thoughts  together  it  was  too  late.  Her 
hesitation  had  bound  her.  She  gasped  out 
miserable  monosyllables  as  Sarah  Lee's  elo 
quent  flood  poured  forth. 

' '  Oh  I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  speech 
less  with  horror!"  said  she.  * '  If  it  had  been 
anything  else! — but  can  you  imagine  even 
the  vilest  of  women  doing  what  they  charged 
us  with? — sending  to  a  bar!  and  the  degra 
dation  of  sending  for  a  thing  with  such  a 
name! — 'Blue  Devils.' ' 

A  little  later  she  said,  "The  one  thing 
that  hurt  me  most  was  that  that  poor  little 
bell-boy  should  be  mixed  up  in  such  horrors, 
and  he  had  a  good  face!"  "So  he  had!" 
moaned  Mrs.  Lodge. 

"  And  at  the  last,  when  it  was  over  and 
we  were  going,  I  turned  back  to  take  one 
more  look  at  those  men.  I  saw  that  pro 
prietor  look  at  those  clerks,  and — oh,  it  was 
too  hideous — I  saw  him  wink!" 

THE   END. 


THIS  BOOK  HAS  BEEN  PRINTED 
DURING  OCTOBER,  1897,  BY  THE 
BLAKELY  PRINTING  COMPANY. 
CHICAGO,  FOR  WAY  *  WILLIAMS. 


LOAN  DEPT 


JVOV  2  9  1985 

— _ 

OCT  2  9 1985 


LD  21A-50w-8  '57 
(C8481slO)476B 


.General  Library- 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


union . 


DOWN    OUR 
WAY 


MARYJAMESON 
JUDAH 


